


Hell and High Water

by themorninglark



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angel!Makoto, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, Gen, Good Omens AU, MakoRin banter, Possibly Sacrilegious Nonsense, Supporting Character: Death, demon!Rin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-29 21:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The End of Days is nearer than we think. The Four Horsemen are about to ride. Everything's going according to Plan.</p><p>That is, if you don't count the fact that the representatives of Heaven and Hell on Earth - a tea-loving angel with green eyes, and a demon with sharp teeth and a sharper tongue - happen to have grown rather fond of mortals some time in the last millennium.</p><p>Oh, and someone (who is definitely <i>not</i> Rin, no, no way) seems to have misplaced the Antichrist...</p><p>(A Free! <i>Good Omens</i> AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue (in the beginning)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I actually wrote this. It started as the most ridiculous headcanon on Twitter, that Aziraphale!Makoto and Crowley!Rin would be hilarious. And then it just... escalated...
> 
> I blame many people for enabling me. You know who you are.
> 
> This outrageous AU is based on the amazing novel _Good Omens_ by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. I think knowing the book would definitely help, but even if you don't, ~~I reckon you can kind of get what's going on~~ I've been informed by people who haven't read it that it's fine!

It was a dark and stormy night.

The angel of the Eastern Gate stared out despondently at the thunderous stormclouds, rain soaking through his white robe. Above him, there stood a sakura tree in perpetual flower. Even now, the pink petals still blossomed, albeit in a decidedly droopy fashion; now and then one would drift down and land on the angel's shoulders.

"That looks damned uncomfortable."

The angel's head did not turn. His gaze flickered slightly over to the left, meeting a pair of shining red eyes.

"You shouldn't use language like that here," said the angel, in what he hoped was a tone of Firm and Unyielding Reproach. He received, for his efforts, a raw, throaty chuckle with a distinct sibilant _hiss_ to it.

"I mean… does He really have to make the weather like this?"

The owner of the aforementioned shining red eyes slithered round the trunk of the tree into sight.

"Dark and stormy? Just because He's in a foul mood?"

"I suppose He thought it was appropriate to the occasion," said the angel.

Privately, the angel had decided - though he would _never_ admit it to the serpent - that he was no big fan of this weather either. He was used to sunshine, pale blue skies and fluffy white clouds that looked like adorable sheep. His robe was entirely too thin for the cold. Storms were decidedly _not_ his thing. They made him feel uneasy in the pit of his stomach.

"Well, it's just really fucking wet and cold for those of us not sitting on a pearly throne," said the serpent, ignoring the angel's scandalised little yelp.

"I rather think this was your doing, you know," the angel pointed out, with a small frown.

The serpent shrugged. This was a distinctly more remarkable trick when one considered that the serpent did not have shoulders. The shrug undulated through the length of his body, down to the tip of his tail, which coiled round a slender branch as the serpent slid forward on its belly towards the angel.

"I didn't even know what would happen," said the serpent. "Boss just said, there's this fruit that He doesn't want the humans to try, seems a bit selfish, why don't you tell them about it?"

" _Selfish_?" the angel repeated, incredulous.

"Hey, I just follow orders," said the serpent. It grinned, showing a row of sharp, pointed teeth that flashed pearly white in the darkness. "So do you. That's what we're here for, angel."

The angel shifted awkwardly from one foot to another. His sandals were soaked. Heavenly footwear had not been made to withstand such an onslaught. The pelting rain grew harder, and the angel sneezed, for the first time in his existence that he could remember. It was a bizarre feeling. It made his face go all scrunchy and his eyes tear up.

He sniffled, with as much dignity as he could manage.

"You're shivering," the serpent observed, slithering closer. His head floated dangerously close to the angel's arm. Those unblinking red eyes stared straight at him.

"I am _not_ ," said the angel.

"Funny. I thought angels couldn't lie."

"And I thought demons couldn't tell the truth."

The serpent's forked tongue flickered out. A flash of lightning lit up the grey sky, for a split second, and the angel saw the glimmer in the serpent's eyes glow brighter in amusement.

The clap of thunder that followed echoed in the valley like a parade of drums. The angel flinched.

"He's just showing off now, isn't He?" remarked the serpent.

The angel looked up with a reproving frown. The serpent had retreated further into the heights of the tree, into the scant shelter of the sakura flowers.

"I thought you had a sword," said the serpent suddenly.

The angel coughed. "Um."

"A flaming one? What happened to it? You look like you could use the warmth."

"I... well, if you _must_ know, I gave it to them," the angel mumbled.

" _Gave it to them?_ "

"Yeah. They looked so cold and lonely, I thought they might be able to use it. It's _dangerous_ outside the garden!"

"Dangerous," the serpent repeated.

"Well, you know, crawling with the likes of you and all…"

"The likes of me, huh?" said the serpent. "Oh yes. Very dangerous. I'm all danger. Unlike this garden, with the thunder, and the lightning, and this blasted rainstorm, and this rebellious angel standing guard - "

"I can't _possibly_ be rebellious. It's not in our nature."

"Yes… just like I can't possibly be any good."

The serpent's tongue flickered out again, and as it slithered up into the very top of the tree, all the petals on the flowers started falling, one by one.

The angel stood still, and kept his ever watchful vigil at the Gate, as a shower of pale, delicate blossoms fell softly on him. For one breathless moment, the grey skies turned pink. The onerous smell of rain-soaked soil was masked by the gentle scent of sakura in the air.

The angel gasped lightly at the sight.

He looked up.

The serpent was gone.


	2. a storm in tokyo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an unauthorised act of prestidigitation is committed in a hospital.

_Shibuya Crossing._

Rin sat at the varnished wooden counter of the second floor Starbucks at the Tsutaya building, clasped his hands round a cup of tepid black coffee, and smiled.

It was chaos below.

The lights had just turned green, the post-work dinner hour crowd was out in full force, and the intersection was a vision of shuffling suited humans, of men and women bumping into each other, of elbows and side-stepping feet and hurriedly muttered _excuse me_ s, wayward apologies lost in the creeping heat of late June. A couple holding a map stopped by the sidewalk and looked up, bewildered. There was a man in a gorilla costume beating his chest in the centre of the crossing. No one batted an eyelid.

As the lights blinked and turned red, a stream of harried, frantic stragglers made their last desperate dashes to the safety of the pavement, the cars roared into life, and the corners started filling up again with the next lot of would-be pedestrians, standing arm to arm by the traffic light, threatening to spill over the kerb and onto the road _at any moment_.

The height of summer beckoned, and with it, school holidays, tourists, and an even _greater_ mass of teeming humanity to add to the view at the Scramble.

What a masterpiece, thought Rin. A real work of _art_ right there.

"Admiring your handiwork?"

Rin turned.

He met a pair of gleaming golden eyes, lynx-like in the shadows.

"Hey," he said.

Seijuurou, in his humanoid shape, dressed in a black leather jacket, pants and combat boots, stepped out from behind a group of chattering teenagers and slid into the seat next to Rin. Rin thought about telling him that this outfit made him look like the boss of a biker gang. He decided against it. Seijuurou, for all intents and purposes, _was_ something like the boss of a biker gang anyway; it didn't really matter if it made people stare.

Despite how crowded Starbucks was - and it _always_ was - the seat next to Rin was empty.

People avoided that seat. People always avoided sitting next to Rin, despite the prime viewing location he occupied by the window.

"Coffee?" Rin offered.

Seijuurou shook his head. "The stuff here is too damned sweet."

"That's why I'm drinking this," said Rin, raising his tall Americano.

" _That_ has no taste at all."

"And yet, humans buy it. They're amazing, huh?"

"You spend too much time among them," Seijuurou mumbled, looking around with an uncomfortable frown, as if the stink of mortality would rub off on him if he stayed a moment too long. The low hum of conversation, the sweet scent of sugar, chocolate and azuki Frappucinos, and the violin strings of benign elevator music filled the air. It was all very pleasant, and it was all very un-Hellish, in a particular manner of speaking, though it was Rin's opinion that humans made for themselves their own brand of Hell on Earth that was more than any fire or brimstone.

The amazing thing was that alongside this, they made their own Heaven too; more breathtaking and graceful than the Garden of Eden.

Rin kept his views to himself, most of the time. They would not be welcome among his compatriots. He quite enjoyed the idea that he was something of a _radical_.

(He shared these thoughts with only one other, usually over a cup of tea.)

Rin took a sip of his coffee. He shot a glance over at Seijuurou, who was staring out at the mayhem of Shibuya Crossing, and shrugged. Over the centuries, he'd developed the shoulders to do so convincingly.

"Someone's gotta do it," said Rin. "Poor me. These humans. So fucked up."

"I think you actually _like_ it."

A grin flashed over Rin's face, fleeting and sharp.

"So, Seijuurou," he asked. "What brings a Duke of Hell all the way down to this lowly coffee joint, looking for me?"

Seijuurou's unblinking gaze never wavered. Rin watched as his eyes glowed brighter, through his reflection in the glass window, for a split second.

"It's time," said Seijuurou.

Rin's fingers tightened round his cup. It crumpled beneath his grip.

It was a ceramic cup.

 _Ah, shit,_ thought Rin. He clenched his hand into a fist, disintegrating the cup entirely. A small puff of smoke rose up from the heart of his palm.

Next to him, a small boy turned, sniffed the air with a curious look on his face, stared at Rin and Seijuurou with wide eyes, then shook his head and blinked twice before returning to his Nintendo Gameboy.

"Oh?" said Rin, with as much carefully affected nonchalance as he could manage.

"Yeah."

"Seems a little speedy."

"It's been a few bloody _millennia_ , Rin."

"What's one more century, then? Hey, some of those decades were really _slow_ , you know - "

"It's time," Seijuurou repeated, cutting Rin off mid-sentence.

Rin swallowed. His throat had gone dry. And he'd just evaporated his coffee, damn it.

"Right," he said. "Okay."

A beat passed.

Seijuurou continued to stare intently out the window. The traffic lights at the pedestrian crossing turned red. An overly eager bright blue Honda zoomed ahead, nearly mowing down a tottering _obaasan_.

"Well, good for him. Really. I'm thrilled. Did you come to invite me to the baby shower, or something?" Rin asked.

"Or something," said Seijuurou, with a grin that made Rin's hair stand on end. "You have to deliver him."

Rin sputtered. " _Excuse me?_ Do I look like a fucking midwife?"

"Not like _that_ , you dunce."

Seijuurou turned around, and raised a hand. Rin opened his mouth, about to inform Seijuurou that this wasn't one of those fancy table service cafés, but the sight of a man in a green apron approaching them silenced him.

Rin watched, slightly agape, as Starbucks Guy dropped an espresso and a face-down receipt onto the counter in front of him.

Seijuurou pushed back his seat and got to his feet. "Don't fuck this up," he said.

Then there was a small puff of orange smoke, and he vanished, leaving a tiny char mark on the chair.

Rin sighed. How was a demon supposed to go _incognito_ when his bosses insisted on doing dumb showy shit like disappearing into thin air instead of, well, _walking away_? Why go to all that trouble to squeeze himself into a human shape if he wasn't even going to use his feet?

The smell of coffee wafted tantalisingly beneath Rin's nose.

_Strong._

This wasn't the usual Starbucks. This was a brew right out of Hell.

Rin eyed the espresso shot suspiciously, and picked up the receipt. It looked like a plain white receipt, like any other receipt, except oddly heavy. It felt rough under his fingers, like parchment.

He flipped it over.

He read the instructions on the other side, written in a script so ancient it was lost beyond the imagination of human history, with characters that no mortal would even be able to look at without a splitting migraine.

As Rin reached the end of the note, the receipt crumbled into dust.

He looked under the counter. There was a basket sitting on the floor that Rin could've _sworn_ wasn't there before. He could also have sworn that Seijuurou had been empty-handed when he showed up. Then again, it wasn't like Seijuurou, or Rin, needed actual human-shaped hands to carry stuff around, even if the _stuff_ in question happened to be… well, _this_.

Rin stared at the basket.

His gaze flickered over to the shot of espresso, still warm, sitting innocuously in front of him. _Might as well,_ he thought, picking it up. _Gonna need my strength, and all that._

He downed it in one gulp and shuddered. It was bitter. More bitter than any coffee he'd had for a thousand years. Hell had absolutely no sense of _refinement_ with drinks. They always dialled everything up to eleven and hit you right in the face with it.

Rin bent down, slung the basket over one arm, and left.

Ten minutes later, the shot glass was still smoking.

 

* * *

 

Makoto put the lid on his teapot, set his egg timer to exactly two minutes, and sat down on the bar stool at his kitchen counter to wait.

The water simmered at a steady 95°C. It was a particular point of pride for Makoto that, over the years, he had learned to achieve this perfect temperature without _cheating_. Like most other culinary matters, it had taken him a very long time to figure it out. Fortunately, Makoto had plenty of time to spare.

(Rin, of course, didn't even bother, he simply cheated outrageously all the time.)

Makoto clasped his hands on his lap and twiddled his thumbs. He listened to the cicadas chirping outside, the low patter of footsteps on the pavement, and the melodious tones of a Haydn piano sonata from his radio. He looked at his living room. The pile of newspapers and circulars stacked up on his coffee table was starting to collect dust. It was also teetering perilously close to an all-out collapse onto the floor. His rug was askew.

He thought mournfully about doing housework, _yet again_. He could swear he'd just cleaned the place. Maybe last month. Maybe three months ago? He wasn't quite sure now. Time, for the likes of Makoto and Rin, had a funny way of _gelling_ together into what felt like one continuous river; not so much flying by without their noticing as simply flowing, ever flowing, so that they stopped paying attention to the mortal demarcations of minutes and hours and weeks and suddenly, before they knew it, the 1890s had turned into the 1960s and Makoto's taste in music was hopelessly out of date all over again.

Time simply did its thing, and Makoto and Rin did theirs, and that was how it had been since that night in the Garden.

_Maybe three years? No, I'm pretty sure it's not years. I think. Rin would've yelled at me to clean up before that._

The egg timer chimed.

Makoto stood up, walked over to his teapot and poured himself a cup of Earl Grey that, in his opinion, smelled absolutely _divine_ (without any _actual_ divine cheating involved, thank you very much).

He added a spot of milk into it, took a sip, and sighed in contentment. The day seemed just a little warmer, the sun shining through his window a little brighter. Everything was peaceful. Everything was calming and lovely on this last day of June.

Tea was a ritual, heartwarming and familiar. Tea was something he had cultivated an intrinsic understanding for. Tea was -

Makoto drained the last dregs of his tea, and stopped, staring down at the leaves in the bottom of his cup.

Tea was, apparently, Rin's latest idea of an otherworldly telegram system.

Makoto squinted at the leaves. They definitely said _something_. They lay scattered in some sort of pattern that looked either like a dog's head or a kangaroo, depending on how he turned the cup. From one angle, it looked exactly like the eastern coastline of Japan.

If Makoto had to put the tea leaves' message into words, he would have been hard-pressed to do so, but he _understood_  their meaning nonetheless. It sank into him, all at once and sudden. His hand shook a little as he put the cup back on its saucer. He couldn't help noticing the small, newly-formed crack running up its side near the handle.

If Makoto had to put the tea leaves' message into words, it would probably have gone something along the lines of, _hey, angel, shit's hitting the fan._

 

* * *

 

There was one thing to be said for his big boss, thought Rin, as he slammed his foot on the accelerator of his chill-red Mazda and surged like a raging current through the roads of downtown Tokyo.

When he made up his mind to do something, he usually did it _fast_. No dallying around for a couple of decades. Just, boom, one second you're chilling and putting your feet up, and the next you look under the table to find the Spawn of Satan lying there in a handbasket like a fucking picnic.

And of course, it was a dark and stormy night _again_ , which meant that traffic was a nightmare.

"Didn't think about that, did you?" Rin grumbled under his breath. "Atmosphere is important and all that, I know, I know, but how'd you expect me to deliver your little bundle of hellspawn to the hospital in time in this bloody _thunderstorming_ traffic?"

There was no answer, but he had the distinct feeling someone was laughing at him.

As Rin sped through the side streets and back alleys of Harajuku, he hummed along with the Queen song that was playing from his CD. It was not, in fact, a Queen CD. It was, if he remembered correctly, a CD of the Tokyo Philharmonic Orchestra playing Dvorak. Not that it mattered, because every CD that entered Rin's car turned into a Queen CD sooner or later. Freddie Mercury had a strange relationship with the denizens of Hell.

 _caught in a landslide  
_ _no escape from reality_

The rain pounded down on his windscreen in sheets. In the darkness, Rin's eyes shone. The better to see the road with.

And for the slightest of moments, he thought he caught an answering glow from the basket next to him, a flash of azure blue through a fold in the blanket.

Rin blinked, and spun his wheel to vault past a slow-walking pedestrian.

He dodged an oncoming truck, wound his way through a line of cars waiting patiently at a red light and took a sharp turn into Akasaka, racing down Aoyama Street. It was the fifth illegal turn Rin had made on this little joyride. He was also driving against traffic.

It was taking every single shred of his energy, everything Rin could dredge up from within him, to keep from leaving a trail of smashed vehicles in his wake, getting slapped with a fine every other minute, and getting hauled over by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police (Traffic Bureau). He was well over the limit of what he was, _typically_ , permitted to do with his powers on a daily basis.

But if there were ever extenuating circumstances, thought Rin, these were it, these were so fucking _it_ that no circumstance could possibly be more extenuating if it came and punched you in the gut.

The Mazda came to a screeching halt just outside a rather nondescript grey building. Rin leaned over, grabbed the basket from his front seat, and stepped into the foyer of the small private hospital. He resisted the urge to take a peek beneath the jet-black blanket to check if his cargo was all right. He had a feeling that it - _he? she? it?_ \- was, in all probability, far more all right than Rin right now.

"Hey," said Rin, raising his voice at the first nurse who passed him by. "Where's Maternity?"

"Down that way, sir. Take the lift to the third floor."

"I don't have time for lifts. Are there stairs?"

The nurse nodded, a look of sympathetic comprehension coming over her face. "Is your wife in there, sir?"

"My… wife? Yes. Uh, yes," said Rin. "I'm - "

Rin dug in his memory for the name on the note, the name that had been seared into his brain.

"Nitori," he said.

The nurse's eyes flew wide open.

"Nitori-san? Your wife is _very_ close - it's a good thing you came when you did, hurry - "

"Already hurrying, thanks!" Rin called over his shoulder, hotfooting it in the direction the nurse had pointed. He ran past the lifts and to the fire escape, pushed open the locked door (melting the keyhole in the process) and took the stairs two at a time.

 _Don't fuck this up,_ Seijuurou had said.

 _As if I ever fuck anything up. Asshole. I've got this,_ thought Rin, trying to quell his frazzled nerves with every step that he took. The basket seemed to grow heavier by the second.

And the baby was constantly, unnervingly, quiet.

This was the world's most placid baby. This baby appeared not to have any vocal chords. Rin was at a loss as to how this was actually _supposed_ to work. Deliver the baby, he'd been told. Swap it with the Nitoris' newborn. Wouldn't _somebody_ notice? Rin wondered. Wouldn't the Nitoris, after a while, be like - what the hell, why doesn't this baby cry?

 _Whatever,_ thought Rin irritably. _Not my problem. Deliver the baby. That much I can do._

He shoved open the door to the third floor, stopped, and stared.

There were at least ten different doors down this corridor. None of them were marked. It occurred to Rin, somewhat belatedly, that he had failed to ask exactly which room number this Nitori's wife happened to be giving birth in.

Just then, the wail of a newborn pierced the air.

Rin zoomed in on the sound like a homing missile.

_That nurse said she was very close, didn't she? That's gotta be it._

He strode purposefully towards that room, took a deep breath, and muttered a few select words under his breath as he opened the door.

The scene before his eyes was frozen, suspended in motion. Rin crossed the room swiftly towards a woman with long, black hair, sitting up in bed with a squirming, pale-faced infant in her arms. Beside her stood two nurses, one facing the woman, the other looking out of the window.

Rin lifted the blanket.

"Hey," he said to the Antichrist, who appeared to have settled in for a nice, long nap. He was sucking his thumb.

Rin set the basket down beside the bed. He lifted the Prince of Hell and Lord of Darkness out into his arms, gingerly placed him into the woman's, took the other infant, and put him into the basket.

_Well. That's it, I guess._

For all the buildup, it had happened surprisingly quickly. Just like that, and the Antichrist would be walking the Earth once he learned to toddle.

Rin stared at the tableau in front of him for a moment longer, wondering if he'd missed anything.

The Spawn of Satan shifted slightly. He yawned.

 _So long,_ thought Rin, with a wry grin. _I'll probably see you again soon. You were a good passenger, for what it's worth. Better than that angel, who always complains of being carsick._

He picked up the basket, left it at the front door of the hospital as he'd been instructed, and drove off into the night.

 

* * *

 

At the crash of thunder outside, the head nurse jumped.

She had the strangest feeling that she'd just woken from a weird dream. She shook her head, and turned back from the window to face her patient and her newborn son.

"What a storm we're having," she murmured. "Your husband must be delayed in this traffic, Nanase-san…"

The woman with long black hair smiled, and looked down at the baby in her arms. He was curled up, thumb in his mouth, sound asleep. His quiet, steady breathing seemed to keep rhythm with the pounding rain outside.

"It's okay. He seems to like it," she said softly.

"It's certainly very unusual," remarked the other nurse. "I've never seen a newborn sleep so peacefully through a thunderstorm. This one is special, Nanase-san."

"Of course he is," murmured the new mother, pressing a soft kiss to the baby's head.

"Have you decided what to name him yet?" asked the head nurse.

"We had some ideas for what to name a girl," said the woman, "We like Haruka, but we don't have names for a boy… _oh, look_ …"

Her voice trailed off in wonderment as the baby opened his eyes, slowly and sleepily.

The other nurse bent over him, cooing in delight. "What beautiful eyes! They're so _blue_!"

"Like the ocean, far away," said his mother, with a gentle smile. "Maybe Haruka does suit him, after all… _Haruka…_ "

 

* * *

 

Outside, the storm continued.

Next door, a young couple kissed the cheek of their newborn infant son, a small boy with blue eyes named Aiichirou. At the door of the hospital, a demon in a biker jacket with golden, lynx-like eyes picked up the basket by the front entrance, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

And as Tokyo wound down into the wee hours of the night, Nanase Haruka, Destroyer of Worlds, drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry for this.
> 
> I'm definitely going to Hell in a handbasket. Possibly _that_ exact handbasket.
> 
> You can come yell at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kenmakotos) or [Tumblr](http://themorninglark.tumblr.com/)!


	3. changing with the times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Makoto watches Rin feed the koi, and alternative career options are explored.

Makoto lived on the second floor of a two-storey building complex off Suzuran Street in Jinbocho, Chiyoda-ku, Tokyo.

On the first floor was a second-hand book store that he had bought from the previous owner in the 1950s. It was one of approximately 180 second-hand book stores in the neighbourhood. Unlike the others, it did not have shelves of books displayed outside, or a bargain bin full of crinkly, yellowing paperbacks; all it had was a wooden storefront without a signboard and a door with an obnoxiously loud bell attached to it.

Inside, rows upon rows of crisp, hardcover books with arcane titles were arranged in an order that made perfect sense to Makoto, _some_ sense to Rin (only through prolonged exposure), and no sense whatsoever to any human who had the misfortune of accidentally stumbling into the shop.

In all likelihood, this bookstore was the one in Jinbocho that received the least traffic, and _definitely_ the least business.

This suited Makoto fine. He did not like parting with any of his books. He made sure to stock his shelves with the most eclectic and unappealing of literature. Occasionally, someone would come in and actually attempt to buy something like _The Compleat Illustrated Guide to Flower Pressing and Models of Arrangement; with Annotations, &c._, and Makoto would smile kindly, offer them a cup of tea, show them all the other books in the store, and see his dazed, sated customer out the door after an hour without actually having made a sale.

Makoto might be an angel, but that didn’t mean he played nice.

He also happened to be a card-carrying member of the Literature Preservation Society, and took his duties very seriously.

 

* * *

 

On this first day of July, Makoto put on a shirt and a pair of bermuda shorts, hung the _CLOSED_ sign on his shop door, and took a short walk down to the grounds of the Imperial Palace. After the storm that had swept through Tokyo last night, the morning felt unnaturally humid.

It was early. Jinbocho was just beginning to stir into life. It was far earlier than Makoto was normally awake. Makoto typically did not open his shop till noon, and definitely not before he'd had a chocolate croissant from the bakery down the road and at least two cups of very strong English Breakfast tea.

He had attempted to stop by the bakery this morning for his fix. The chocolate croissants were not ready yet. Makoto could not help but feel that there was something sinister about that.

He entered the palace by the main gate, wandered past the moat, the white-walled pagodas and Nijubashi Bridge, and stepped into the sprawling green grounds of the East Garden. The air smelled of pine.

To Makoto, it also smelled of smoke and lingering rain.

The grass made little rustling sounds beneath his loafers as he walked. By the lake in the centre of the garden, Makoto spotted the familiar red hair and black sports jacket from the back.

“Hey,” he said.

“Yo,” said Rin, without turning around.

“I got your message,” said Makoto, walking over to stand next to Rin, who was tearing bits of bread off the bun in his hand and tossing them into the river for the royal koi.

Rin was wearing sunglasses today, which, Makoto knew, meant he had woken with the most terrible eyebags.

“I had one hell of a night,” Rin remarked. “I barely slept. You have no _idea_ , angel.”

Makoto cleared his throat. “So. It’s happened, has it?”

“Yeah.”

Rin’s voice, Makoto noticed, was distinctly devoid of any enthusiasm; he kept his gaze fixed morosely on the surface of the lake, where the fish made little gaping ripples as they surfaced.

“I didn’t think it would come so soon,” said Makoto.

“That’s what _I_ said to Seijuurou, damn it,” said Rin. “I mean… what’s the hurry? It’s not like there’s anything really _wrong_ with the way things are now.”

Makoto watched the deepening furrow in Rin’s brow, the annoyed quirk to his lips. He smiled lightly.

“We’ll win, you know,” he said.

“Oh? What makes you so sure of that?”

Makoto shrugged. “Isn’t that how it’s supposed to be? Good vanquishes evil, everyone lives happily ever after, the end.”

“Well, but listen, angel,” said Rin, turning to face Makoto with a small frown. “Can you imagine a life without, say… _chocolate_?”

Makoto winced, and Rin plowed on mercilessly. His eyes were hidden behind the shade of the sunglasses, but Makoto knew that if he could see them, they would be glinting with a knowing glee.

“Or video arcades? Or soap operas so bad they’re good? Or… I don’t know, _tea_?”

“Wait a minute,” Makoto protested. “ _Tea_ isn’t one of yours. Tea is definitely ours.”

“Oh, really? Lapsang Souchong? That dark, smoky, _intense_ flavour? The way it burns going down your throat… the smell of it, so sinful - ”

“ _Rin_ …”

Rin grinned. His teeth, for all the coffee he drank, remained blindingly white.

“What’s that? Are you _whining_ , Makoto?”

Makoto shot Rin his best hangdog look. “I don’t _whine_. You wrong me.”

Rin snorted. “Yeah, right. Anyway, what I mean is… I don’t know, wouldn’t it be kind of, _hellish_ , actually, if your side won?”

Makoto thought about it. He looked down at his feet, and thought about storms, and standing in the rain in sandals.

He was troubled.

He was not troubled by the thought that there might, in fact, be _some_ small merit to Rin’s point; Makoto had a very open mind, for an angel.

He was troubled by what would come next.

He was troubled by the uncertainty.

He had, sometime in the eighth century, come to a tacit acceptance of the Arrangement, an acceptance which was not so much open arms but more a subtle handshake under the table that both he and Rin never spoke about. They didn’t need to discuss it, so long as they both knew what, exactly, was up; and what was up was that, over a few hundred years, these two remote field agents had figured their lives would be easier if they only _pretended_ to fight each other, and that their opposite numbers weren’t exactly _poor_ company to be spending the next few hundred years with, and it would probably be bad news for the other if one of them were to get retrenched.

(Retrenchment, in the case of celestial beings - or demonic, it was pretty much the same either way - was, more often that not, also very, very bad news for the one being retrenched.

That is, on the rare occasion there was anything left of them to think, _oh, I’m out of a job_.

Most of the time, there wasn’t.)

And having transacted this secret handshake, having navigated through a few thousand years of give and take with minimal fuss, of letting Rin have the demon’s gate of Ueno and the shoujo anime fever in exchange for Nakameguro and the cleanest, most advanced toilets in the world, Makoto was troubled by the thought that it might all be upended rather sooner than he had expected.

Not that he _wanted_ his side to lose or anything, or that he hadn’t known that the past millennia had, really, just been a long intermission between acts, and that the main players would have to stop dawdling one day and get a move on with it.

It was just that Makoto had grown quite accustomed to his current lifestyle. He knew what to expect on a daily basis. He enjoyed the comfortable familiarity. He found it, on the whole, very pleasant.

He did not know if whatever came next would be as pleasant.

He did know that he did not feel particularly _well-disposed_ towards the idea of a world without chocolate, tea or video games. (Or Rin, for that matter; he shelved this as an afterthought.)

“I suppose,” Makoto said, “if it was really _inevitable_ that we should win, it wouldn’t make much sense for me to be working so hard for it anyway.”

“Exactly,” said Rin. “You’re running your ass off every day. Thwarting my wiles. And my evil deeds.”

“I suppose,” Makoto said, “that I should continue doing that. It’s my job, right? I mean, I'm not supposed to _directly_ stick my nose in, but...”

“Oh, I don’t know. Your bookstore keeps you pretty busy. Too busy to interfere with our plans, that's for damn sure.”

“For you, Rin?” Makoto smiled sweetly. “I’ve always got time.”

Rin tossed another scattering of bread into the water, and shot Makoto a grin like lightning, quick and blinding and gone in a flash, and in that moment they were bigger than _Rin_ and _Makoto_.

In that moment, Rin seemed to glow with an aura of blood red.

Makoto knew better than to trust that aura entirely. He’d learned that much about Rin, all these years.

In every vein of blood, after all, there flowed just a little bit of humanity, of what made them mortal, and short-lived, and so endlessly flawed and very interesting. It kept Makoto on his toes. It kept him guessing. He could never tell what they'd do next.

Makoto watched the glow around Rin fade away slowly, and pondered their situation.

“But he’s the Antichrist,” he said, out loud.

“So?” asked Rin.

“So, I mean… isn’t he _inherently_ evil? No matter how much I try to, uh, _thwart your wiles_?”

“Nah,” said Rin. “I figure he’s, like, a blank slate right now. You can’t tell from _genetics_ , right? You and I, we’re the same stock and all, and you’re a paragon of utter virtue, while I’m the worst of the worst.”

“Right,” said Makoto. “Of course. The very worst.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, smiled a little smile, and gazed out pensively at the surface of the lake. The two of them stood in companionable silence for a brief infinity, broken only by the soft rippling sounds of bread landing on the water. The sun grew warm on their faces.

“You know, we really aren’t supposed to feed the fish,” Makoto said eventually, the slightest hint of angelic reproach in his voice.

Rin looked at the bread in his hand. “Do you think this actually has any nutritional value?”

Makoto crossed his arms and frowned sternly at Rin. “Cheating again?”

“It’s not _cheating_. It’s a fucking bread roll, Makoto.”

“It’s still not _real_ bread.”

“Tsk. You and your prejudices.”

Rin waved his hand, and the bread roll vanished from his palm, leaving a horde of very disappointed koi gaping up at him helplessly.

“Come on, let’s go and get some real breakfast,” said Rin, dusting the crumbs off his jacket.

Makoto yawned. “’S too early to be awake,” he mumbled.

“You suck so bad at mornings. Did you even look at yourself while getting dressed today?”

Makoto looked down at himself. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”

“Loafers, socks, _and_ plaid bermudas? The only decent thing on you is your shirt.”

“You gave me this shirt,” said Makoto.

They fell into step side by side, walking out of the garden, and Rin arched an eyebrow at him. “Exactly.”

 

 

 _**(the four, passing time)**_  

She had red hair, and in her time, she had been a fighter, a younger sister, and a feudal warlord’s daughter.

She remained the first two, to this day.

But the time for warlords was past. The time for war, as she had known it, was past.

She wore her hair down in this century.

A convoy of black limousines with tinted windows pulled up on the road outside, silent and looming, stretching as far as the eye could see. She twirled her pencil round her finger in a perfect circular motion, smoothed the creases from her blazer and pencil skirt, and stood up to greet the party of foreign dignitaries shortly being ushered through the revolving hotel doors.

They were gathered here, in this city, for a top-secret summit of such diplomatic importance that even the newspapers were under a strict gag order from reporting about it, and more than one editor had called her on the phone in actual tears.

They would sit around a table with name plates _thoughtfully_ arranged by her.

She would nod politely as she helped to serve the coffee and tea, and she would fade into the background with her clipboard, taking notes, casually chatting during breaks with the junior officers from each delegation. They would warm to her eventually, like everyone always did. There was just something about the friendly, down-to-earth redheaded girl that projected trustworthiness, and reliability, like a feeling that you’d known her for a long, long time.

She would drop a careful hint here and there. Her position, of course, let her _hear_ things, things she couldn’t _possibly_ share openly with anyone else - oh, such _things_ \- but of course, she wasn’t one for indiscretions of this nature -

Of course, they would say, with a smile as bright and brittle as paper. Of course, we understand perfectly.

And she would smile, and walk away, till next time.

She was good at that. The planning, running the show behind the scenes. She was never one to take the limelight, despite the demands of her job.

By the end of the week, she knew that at least five of these countries would be seething at each other, and at least two Ambassadors would have challenged each other to a deadly serious drinking contest.

This was how war was conducted in this era. She was adaptable. She had re-shaped her art, as the times demanded.

But, as she stepped forward and walked briskly towards the hotel entrance, a welcoming smile on her face, Kou couldn’t help eyeing the muscles on the bodyguards, and sighing inwardly as she thought of the old days with a warm fondness.

 

* * *

 

“Mmm,” said the man in the white suit, sprawled on the couch in his office. “ _Delicious_.”

He winked at his assistant, and took another bite of the new cotton candy sample he’d just been handed.

His assistant was a tall, stick-thin young man with immaculate hair and even more immaculate dress sense. He wrote beautiful notes and had perfect posture. He functioned, generally, not unlike a very efficient golem, only better looking. _So_ charming, thought his employer. Such a blast from the past.

Golems had been great, while they lasted. They didn’t need to eat.

“I’ll let them know you like it, then, Sir?”

“Stop with this _Sir_ business. Call me Kisumi already.”

“Very good, Sir. Would you like to elaborate on the aspects of the sample you find pleasing?”

Kisumi rolled his eyes. He closed them.

He let the tiny bite of cotton candy explode, _fill_ his mouth, and he shuddered at the sensation as it melted away into nothingness on his tongue. Of course, that _was_ what it was. It was nothingness. There was absolutely no nutritional value or substance to it whatsoever. That was the beauty of it, that they sold dreams and a song on spun sugar, and that humans bought it, a _lot_ of it, enough of it that Kisumi had an office forty floors up with a breathtaking sea view and more money than he knew what to do with.

He didn’t even have to work all that hard any more. Humans did all his job for him sometimes.

“Delicious,” he said again.

His assistant made a polite scribble on his notepad.

“It tastes so… _pink_. And airy. And light. The texture is just _sublime_. Send my compliments to the lab. Give them all huge bonuses. The day off.” Kisumi waved a hand in the air vaguely.

“Very good, Sir. I’ve also left some new product proposals on your desk.”

Kisumi sulked. “Do I _have_ to read them?”

“Not if you don’t wish to, Sir. I can have them shredded,” said the unflappable assistant, without batting an eyelid.

With an effort, Kisumi pulled himself upright. He stretched his long, lanky arms overhead and cracked his knuckles. “Are they any good?”

“There is one proposal I believe may be worth your time, Sir. I’ve put it on top.”

“Ooh. That sounds _exciting_.”

His assistant nodded. “If you’ll excuse me - ”

He took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Kisumi walked over to his desk. He picked up the manila folder sitting on top, with a huge red _Private and Confidential_ stamped on it.

He opened it.

He smiled, and his eyes changed colour for a split second, from faded indigo to bright, glowing amethyst.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, his colleagues teased him about being outdated. Sometimes, it wasn’t even so much teasing as just _blatantly_ ignoring him, or looking down at him with pity in their eyes, like they wanted _so bad_ to tell him that his time was past, but refrained out of some misplaced feeling of respect for his glory days.

_Hey, remember Egypt? Remember the locusts? That was… ahhh, that was something, eh?_

_Yeah, but DDT’s killed your game, hasn’t it?_

_Well… you’ve got a good pension, at least._

He knew all these platitudes by heart. He could pluck them from the minds of every last one of them, every sharp-tongued devil, even if they didn’t put them into words.

And he would shoot them a dazzling, boyish grin and a V-sign, and walk away.

And in their domiciles, the next day, they would wake to find a nest of stag beetles under their beds that simply refused to be vanished away with a snap of their fingers.

He was simply doing them a _favour_ , for who wouldn’t find that absolutely delightful?

The name he used in this decade meant _peach boy_. It tickled his fancy. Peaches were one of the favourite fruits of his pets. He never travelled without a handful of them in his capacious pockets. (He also never travelled without a handful of peaches, lest they get hungry; the ones he could create on the spot were never quite as fulfilling as the real, honest-to-goodness deal.)

He worked in a museum of natural history as a tour guide. He was very popular, among coworkers as well as visitors. School groups loved him. He was such a _fount_ of knowledge about the animal kingdom! Especially _Coleoptera_ and their relations. And he was so good with the kids, so bubbly and friendly. They called him _Momo-kun_ and squealed with delight when he let them pet the rats and take photos with live stick insects on their shoulder.

And at the end of every tour, he always, somehow, managed to find a moment when parents and teachers weren’t looking, and he would bend down, put his finger to his lips in a conspiratorial manner, and sneak each and every kid a tiny jar with a pair of magnificent beetles in them.

“Raise them well,” he would say, with a ear-to-ear smile, and the kids would nod eagerly and bring them home, and he would bask in the afterglow of a job well done. Spreading happiness. That was what he did.

On his breaks, he liked to hang out in the back garden of the museum. There was an elm tree there with wide branches, a strong trunk and a healthy, thriving colony of insect life, with the occasional arachnid thrown in.

And as Momotarou bent down, picked up a stick and poked in the dirt near the tree’s roots, he thought, once again, that all those hellboys didn’t know what they were _on_ about, there was no better time for him to be around doing his thing. Because, despite the best efforts of humanity, didn’t his pets continue to _flourish_ , to crawl the earth?

A little leaf beetle, its shell shimmering green and bluish turquoise under the sunlight, crawled up his stick and onto his finger.

“Hello, beautiful,” said Momotarou gleefully.

 

* * *

 

And then there was him, the last of their number.

He stuck with tradition, and dressed all in black, though over the years, he’d updated his outfit from hooded robe to suit to, sometimes, a T-shirt and jeans, depending on his mood.

He always wore a pendant round his neck, a thin strip of polished pewter given to him by an old, old friend, a farewell present before he Sauntered Vaguely Downward to his new posting on Earth.

He was in the halls of the Embassies, and the homes of the most diehard cotton candy fans, and the deepest part of every rainforest, where wildlife was wildest and where mortal foot rarely trod. Unlike his compatriots, he did not have the time for a human career. He had not stopped working his regular job for millennia. He was unbound by geography, and he went where he was needed.

Nobody ever quite knew where he was, exactly.

Neither did he, sometimes.

(Okay, most of the time. What of it? The world had changed a _lot_ over the years, and it was too damn easy to get disoriented in all these urban environments.

He still got the job done, in the end, albeit via the _scenic_ route.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still having way too much fun with this. That is all. Next chapter: bringing up babies.
> 
> I wrote up [a few brief notes](http://themorninglark.tumblr.com/post/119159160790/hell-and-high-water-chapter-3) on the _Good Omens_ parallels for those who don't know the novel, but it's entirely side information (and spoiler free), reading them is optional.
> 
> hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kenmakotos) or [tumblr](http://themorninglark.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk hellish headcanons!


	4. like a hound out of hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which little boys grow up, with some help and no help at all, respectively.

Nanase Haruka, having survived the storm in Tokyo on the night of his (unexpected all around) arrival, was spirited home by his parents the following week, whereupon they received a sound chiding from Grandma Nanase for their belligerent insistence on travelling for work when the baby was due any time, made sheepish apologies, and cradled their son proudly as he yawned, blinked, and gazed, for the first time, into the wood-panelled corridor of the house on the hill where he would grow up.

The house stood at the halfway point of a flight of stone steps, beyond a _torii_ gate. At the top of the steps stood a shrine with a magnificent view of the Sea of Japan. The path up the mountain was uneven and winding, and the houses seemed to have dropped from the sky and landed, higgledy-piggledy, wherever there was space for one to squeeze in.

This was the town called Iwatobi, on the coast of Tottori-ken. It barely qualified as a _town_ at all. It could, perhaps, be more accurately referred to as an assemblage of villagers who had sprung up around the harbour and its abundant supply of seafood.

Every morning, Iwatobi woke with the sunrise, stirred into life, slowly, rustling like leaves in the autumn wind, making soft, whispering sounds that grew warmer and brighter as the day drew on. Every night, it wound down with a sigh and the sound of cicadas from the mountains.

The air smelled of squid, and the salt of the sea.

Home wasn't much.

To Haruka, it was everything.

 

* * *

 

On the other side of Japan, in the heart of the little suburb north of Ueno that was Yanaka, Tokyo, young Nitori Aiichirou learned to take his first, unsteady steps with his tiny hands planted in the palms of a kind-looking florist with a makeshift pushcart on the corner near Sakura-dori.

Aiichirou looked up, sky blue eyes shining, and smiled.

"He's so sweet," said the florist. "How old is he?"

"Eleven months," said his mother, beaming with pride.

And as they toddled away, mother and child, the red-haired _manjuu_ seller nearby threw a bun at the florist's head. It hit him square in the temple, and dissipated into thin air.

"Ouch," said the florist. He turned around.

"No direct interaction!" snapped the _manjuu_ seller. "That's against the rules!"

" _You_ had direct interaction," the florist pointed out, in an injured tone.

"When the hell did I have direct interaction?"

"When you delivered him to the hospital?"

"He was a fucking baby, Makoto!"

"We-ell," said the florist, "it's not like he's very much older now…"

Rin scowled. Makoto gave him the most innocent, beguiling smile he could manage.

"Anyway, I always thought your side wasn't all that big on _rules_ ," he added.

"Funny thing, that," said Rin, his voice deadpan. "They're all for _general_ disobedience, but they're also really big on very _specific_ rules. Mainly, those that involve doing what our boss says. They're not so big on rules set by _your_ boss."

"Funny thing, that," echoed Makoto. "It's the same for us."

He bent down.

His cart held flowers of all sorts, on this beautiful, breezy late spring day in May. The scent of lilies lingered in the air. Bouquets of camellias with honeysuckle, pale pink azaleas, and golden sunflowers decorated the front of his little stall.

He reached past all of them, and out of the grass by the wheels of his cart, he plucked a lone white daisy, and handed it to Rin.

" _Hinagiku_ ," he said.

Rin took it.

The daisy remained as it was, pristine, the colour of clouds in the sky, surprise sunlight winking out from the middle.

The daisy did not burst into flames. Or start smoking.

Makoto smiled.

"And this is for?" Rin asked, twirling it between his fingers with something like a frown.

" _Faith_ ," said Makoto.

 _Faith_ , said the angel, in the bland, pleasantly genial tones of a well-meaning acquaintance, a learned scholar of _hanakotoba_ , translating the flower in the demon's hand with ease and succinct dispatch.

Rin knew better. Makoto was no scholar. He had never _learned_ _hanakotoba_.

He'd invented the whole goddamned flower language.

And over centuries, it had become real in the way everything else did. It had become real because people _believed_. And the _meaning_ of flowers had permeated, slowly, into the things they said to each other, into books and greeting cards and thoughts, into these flowers themselves and the very _earth_ that they sprang from, and if he said a daisy was freaking _faith_ then it _was_ because Makoto said so, and it really, really pissed Rin off.

Heaven had no business throwing him an opponent this _subtle_. But then, Rin doubted Heaven really knew what it had in Makoto in the first place.

"Ha ha," he said. "Very funny, angel."

Makoto had the grace to look slightly sheepish.

 

* * *

 

This was Makoto's first meeting with Nitori Aiichirou.

It was also Rin's first, and if he'd been paying more attention, he might have realised it.

Unfortunately for the universe and the Great and Glorious Armies of Heaven and Hell, Rin, on that morning, became particularly preoccupied with chasing some cats out of his _manjuu_ shop, and complaining to Makoto that _this_ was why he simply couldn't stay put in one place for too long like he did with that bookstore of his, because sooner or later, every stray cat in the neighbourhood would come to bat at his feet like a ball of yarn.

Makoto pointed out that it was probably Rin's invisible tail - or the _feel_ that a tail _should_ be there where it patently _wasn't_ , at least not in this plane of existence - that was driving the cats up the wall with distraction.

Rin scowled and protested that that _really_ wasn't his fault.

 

* * *

 

The Nitoris lived in a cosy old two-storey house like every other one on the street, with a pebbled pathway and a neatly trimmed collection of bonsai.

In the house on their left, there lived a baker who owned a shop down Yanaka Ginza.

In the house on their right, there lived a young violin teacher who played excerpts from Orff's _Carmina Burana_ every morning.

The baker came round on Tuesdays and Thursdays with freshly baked rolls of bread topped with little fondant animals. He came in the afternoons, when little Aiichirou was home from preschool, and together he taught him the names of all of God's creations and they lined up the sheep and lions and giraffes two by two to board a loaf shaped like an ark.

The violin teacher came round on Mondays and Wednesdays with CDs and sheet music. She played selections from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony and Holst's The Planets. The Nitoris' living room resounded with the strident tones of _Mars, the Bringer of War_. Sometimes, she would surprise Aiichirou with other types of music.

When Aiichirou was four years old, the violin teacher brought him a Meat Loaf album. He sang along to English lyrics neither he nor his parents understood.

 _Like a bat out of Hell  
_ _I'll be gone with the morning comes_

He asked the violin teacher what the words meant. She told him.

"The nice baker man next door says bats are kind creatures who eat fruit and are too shy to come out in the day time," said Aiichirou.

"Don't listen to him," said the violin teacher. "Let me tell you about the vampire bat, who drinks blood."

When Aiichirou was five years old, the baker showed him how to knead his own bread rolls. He stood on a stool and pressed handprints into dough on the counter. The delicate cloud of flour that flew into his face tickled his nose, and he sneezed, with a delighted little laugh.

The baker gave Aiichirou a little cake-topper figurine of his own to keep on his bedstand. It was shaped like a duck and wore a yellow necktie with polka dots.

"The nice violin lady next door says ducks are meant to be roasted in the Fires of Hell and eaten with orange sauce," said Aiichirou.

"Don't listen to her," said the baker. "Let me show you how newborn ducklings hatch from eggs."

And so it went.

The Arrangement, as it had done for centuries, worked perfectly. Rin reported to his superiors that young Aiichirou was growing up into a regular Freddie Mercury and his bedroom was in a perpetual mess worthy of the Deadly Sin of Sloth itself. Makoto reported to _his_ superiors that young Aiichirou loved the smell of freshly baked bread and liked to play with small puppies.

They met in coffee shops, compared notes, smiled at the progress they were making and clinked teacups.

When Aiichirou turned six, he enrolled in a local elementary school.

Coincidentally, the violin teacher and the baker both moved away that year.

When Aiichirou turned ten, his Science teacher in school was a kind older lady who noticed Aiichirou's interest in the morning glory flower, gave him a journal to write his observations in, and taught him all about how plants grew from seeds.

His Physical Education teacher was a young man with dark eyes who encouraged Aiichirou's growing interest in swimming. He showed him a large variety of magazines with swimwear models, both male and female.

Aiichirou wrote faithfully in his journal, one page every day, practised swimming breaststroke, and pored over the magazines with wide, shining eyes.

Aiichirou worked hard, and his grades were the most average in the entire school. Neither his Science teacher nor his Physical Education teacher were entirely satisfied with him.

In his spare time, Aiichirou listened to the radio, watched shounen sports anime and went cycling with his friends. He enjoyed school trips out to the countryside.

One year, Aiichirou visited a cabbage farm in Gunma-ken, and returned to Tokyo with a renewed enthusiasm for vegetables.

Rin was troubled.

In the centre of Chiyoda, in a cafe beneath the white and gold dome of Tokyo Station, he sat with Makoto, downed his entire macchiato in one shot and said what he had not even dared to think for the past five years.

"He's too fucking _normal_ ," said Rin.

"Well," said Makoto calmly, taking a sip of his Earl Grey, "it must be my good influence."

"I mean, like… he should be doing some crazy shit by now."

Makoto put his cup down, and looked at Rin with a raised eyebrow. Rin made a vaguely grandiose gesture that threatened to knock a flower vase off the table.

"You know, like, reshaping the world in his image, or _warping_ it to his desires."

"He's a growing boy," Makoto mused. "Maybe his desire is to be a normal kid?"

Rin frowned, absently drumming his fingertips on the table in a restless tattoo. "I don't like it. I can't put my finger on it. He just feels…"

He paused, trailing off mid-sentence, and tried to recall Nitori Aiichirou to his mind.

"That's it," he said.

"What's it?" Makoto echoed.

"He feels _nothing_. That's it. Makoto, have you ever felt _any_ kind of vibe off that kid? Any sense that he has… _any_ kind of power?"

Makoto, hands curving deliberately round the sides of his fine Wedgwood porcelain cup, was silent.

"Maybe he's a late bloomer?" he offered, after a while.

Rin sighed. "Whatever. I just hope he knows how to deal with the hellhound."

Makoto stared. " _Hellhound_?"

"I got the news, last night. I was watching _Iron Chef_ , and suddenly Kaga was all, like, turning to stare straight into my living room and going _WE HAVE A SPECIAL DISPATCH, RIN_ , and by the time we got back to the show I'd totally missed what the damn theme ingredient of the episode was… anyway, yeah, they're sending him this hellhound for his eleventh birthday."

"Well," said Makoto, "he _does_ like puppies…"

"Oh, this won't be a fucking _puppy_ , Makoto," said Rin, with a grin like a paper cut. "This will be a dangerous, three-headed Cerberus. Hell-sent to protect the Master, to rip to shreds all who dare cross his path and defy his will, et cetera."

"Oh," said Makoto.

He picked up his cup. He took another sip of tea, this one longer, and slower.

"That kind of puppy, huh?" he said, when he finally set the cup back on its saucer.

"Yeah," said Rin. " _That_ kind."

"When's it arriving?" asked Makoto.

"Like I said. On his eleventh birthday. I don't know what time, it's not like they sent me a calendar invite or a _save-the-hour_."

"Will you be there?"

"I don't know," said Rin. He shot Makoto a look from beneath half-lidded, shadowy eyes; he propped his chin up on a fist and smiled like a cat at its prey. "Will you?"

"I'll have to check my schedule," said Makoto pleasantly, smiling back.

 

* * *

 

It was a cool morning, a morning when the sea breeze blew rough and the tide crashed gentle on the worn wooden planking of the pier. The sun had just risen. Iwatobi was stirring.

The air _shimmered_ for a moment, and suddenly, there was a dog at the very bottom of the stone steps leading to Misagozaki Shrine, in a place where there had not been a dog before.

At least, it seemed to be a dog. There was a certain sense of _dogness_ there, something that proclaimed _canine_ with no room for doubt; but had any passerby stopped to take a closer look at it, they would have been hard-pressed to describe the shape of the dog, its breed, size, or colour. Indeed, they would have been hard-pressed to explain what it was, exactly, that made them think there was a dog there in the first place.

And yet, they would have sworn that they saw its harsh black jowls quivering, saw the gleam of saliva from its panting, half-open mouth, where the white point of a fanged tooth pierced the wind.

Where the dog stood, the very ground seemed to sizzle and smoke, like burning coals.

The dog sniffed at the steps. He raised his muzzle. He could smell his Master. He was close, so close…

"What shall we play today?

And the dog heard a voice, the voice of a young boy, tinged with gold and sunlight. It drifted down from the top of the steps near the _chouzuya_ , beyond the _torii_ gate.

"Why don't we go to the library? It's so hot."

Another voice. A different one. This was a voice like autumn, crisp, like the sound that leaves made when you stepped on them. Cool, but the cool of air on your skin, not the cool of ice -

"Eh? The _library_? You're so boring, Rei-chan… what do you think, Haru-chan?"

The dog's ears perked up. It took a short, sharp breath. It sat back on its haunches, and listened.

"It's hot."

There he was.

His Master. The Prince of the World. The Centre of the Universe.

 _His_ voice was the cool of ice. His voice trembled in the dog's bones like an echo.

"See, Haruka-kun agrees with me! Let's go to the - "

"The beach."

The dog pawed the ground, impatient, waiting. Every moment was agony. Every sound that his Master made, every soft, velvet, _intense_ syllable, rang like clashing cymbals in his ears.

"Let's go to the beach."

"But Haru-chan, aren't we going to the beach for your birthday party later?"

"So?"

A sound like tinkling laughter, like bells.

The dog shook his head. That was not from his master. That was from the golden one.

"That's just like you, Haru-chan… ah, I wonder what you'll get for your birthday!"

"…A dog."

The dog froze. It quivered in anticipation.

Its time was close.

"Eh? How do you know, Haruka-kun? Did your father tell you?"

A pause. It lasted no more than two seconds. To the dog, it seemed to stretch forever, into a vale of infinite possibilities.

"The water told me," said his Master.

"Ooh, what _kind_ of dog?" said the golden voice. "I bet it'll be a really cool dog, a _big_ proper one, like a _doberman_ , or something - "

"That kind of dog is _dangerous_ , Nagisa-kun! What about… what about a border collie?"

"Nah," said his Master. "That sounds troublesome. I don't want that. It'll be a normal-sized stray dog. Like the kind you see on the street corner. He'll be just like that."

The dog shifted uncertainly. It blinked.

It seemed to _shrink_ into itself, growing smaller, scruffier.

"What colour will it be, Haru-chan?"

"Black," said his Master, firmly.

The dog relaxed. This was expected territory.

It was already black anyway, or, rather, the _suggestion_ of black; it fuzzed round the edges for a moment, and when it solidified, the suggestion had become a sleek coat of dark, glossy fur, blacker than the pits of Hell -

"But maybe with a bit of white," said his Master. "All black is boring."

The dog let out a low whimper of confusion. He saw, in his Master's mind, the blurry image of a marine mammal, black and white like an orca.

It fuzzed again. Patches of white appeared, from its nose to its belly.

"What about the _name_? It's gotta have an awesome name, like - like the Sengoku warlord, _Nagamasa Azai_!"

"That's too long for a dog, Nagisa-kun!"

"The name?" said his Master. "Hmm."

The dog stood on the tips of its paws, poised, taut as a bowstring. This was it. The Moment of Naming. The Moment when its purpose would be made real, and solid. The Moment when the very nature of its _being_ would be defined.

It held its breath, and waited for its Master to speak his name.

"Makkou."

The dog seemed to wink out of existence for a moment, become something shaped like a large, confused whale, flopping belly-first onto shore. There was a sound like the deafening roar of an ocean wave.

The dog winked back into being a dog.

It shook itself hard, from head to tail.

_Makkou?_

"Makkou? Ah, like the _makkou kujira_?"

"What's that, Rei-chan?"

"It's the sperm whale. Isn't it, Haruka-kun?"

The dog flattened itself on the warmth of the pavement, and whined softly.

It did not know how to be a sperm whale. It had not been sent forth from Hell to _be_ a sperm whale. Sperm whales were not capable of protecting landbound beings. Sperm whales were also kind of blobby, and not particularly _threatening-looking_ , although, in its current mongrel incarnation, neither was the dog.

_Makkou._

It fuzzed again, uncertainly.

"Mmm." A pause, thoughtful. "They can stay under water for two hours."

"You just want a whale for a pet, Haru-chan…"

"Well, the _makkou kujira_ is really cool, Haruka-kun," declared the other voice, in the strident, knowledgable tones of one who, at the tender age of ten, had watched at least four different documentaries on the deep sea. "They have the largest brain of _any_ living animal!"

 _Brain._ The dog sat up, seizing on these words like a faint, grasping lifeline to this plane of existence This it could manage. It could be smart. A smart dog.

It shifted, and blinked intelligent eyes.

"He'll love the water," said his Master, very seriously. "And he'll love to swim. So we can swim together."

Three sets of footsteps padded down the stairs. The dog looked up, sniffing the air again. It felt the currents of the sea pulse through its veins.

The footsteps grew louder, the voices closer.

His Master - his Master was coming…

 

* * *

 

Over in Tokyo on the last day of June, midnight beckoned, on a street in front of a little house in Yanaka.

Rin leaned back against a lamppost, and bit down on his lip.

The dog was late.

"Coffee?"

He turned. Makoto stood behind him, holding out a white paper cup with a familiar green siren emblazoned on its side. The smell coming from it was comfortingly like ditchwater.

"I'm amazed you could walk into that place without melting into a cloud of fairy dust," Rin remarked, taking the cup from Makoto.

"So am I," said Makoto.

Rin took a long drink. He needed it.

"Cold night," said Makoto.

"Yeah," said Rin.

Makoto hugged his jacket closer, and looked at his watch. It was a gaudy orange affair, something he'd picked up in the sixties when this sort of cheap, bright plastic thing was in style. It clashed with everything else he had on.

Rin did not have a watch. He didn't need one. Time didn't mean anything to him.

Neither did it to Makoto, but Makoto liked to keep up the human-seeming proprieties when he could. He was strange and old-fashioned like that.

"It's 11:59pm," said Makoto.

"Don't remind me. This damn hellhound has, like, one minute to show up. Where _is_ it?"

"Maybe it got lost," Makoto suggested.

"It wouldn't _get lost_ ," Rin muttered. "Well - unless they got Sousuke to bring it here - "

" _Would_ they?" asked Makoto, doubtfully.

"No," said Rin. "They really wouldn't."

He eyed the house across the road with a baleful glare. He counted the seconds.

_Fifty. Fifty-one._

"What if it doesn't come?" Makoto asked.

"That can't be. It's gonna come. Just wait - they're probably saving it for some damn grand entrance or something - "

_Fifty-six. Fifty-seven._

"Okay," said Makoto, watching Rin watch the house.

_Fifty-nine. Sixty._

And the clock ticked over into 12:01, into July.

No hellhound appeared.

Rin raised his cup to his lips, and drank. The coffee was still hot. It seared the back of his throat, burning like lava.

He turned to Makoto.

"Well, we're fucked," he said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rin.


	5. another one bites the dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Makoto renews his acquaintance with Freddie Mercury, and Nagisa is the victim of a prank.

Over the centuries, Makoto had been an unwilling and mildly displeased passenger in Rin's vehicle of choice any number of times, where _vehicle_ was a loosely-applied term that could refer to anything from the gondola of a dirigible to the bare back of a literal _nightmare_ by the unlikely name of Sakura Rose, who had a sleek, shiny coat as black as a raven's wing, and a temperament to match.

"Don't ask," Rin had snapped, as Makoto clung on for dear life, and they galloped out of the estate into the night, cutting cross-country.

Makoto had not asked. He had been too busy looking over his shoulder at the mob with fiery pitchforks that was running after them. He had been too busy wondering why it was that his palms were sweating. Angels did not _sweat_.

"My sister named him," Rin muttered, after a while. "She thought it suited me."

Makoto felt Rin shift, saw his heels dig into the horse's flanks. Flames sparked from Sakura Rose's hooves, leaving little char marks in the dry, yellowing grass.

Around them, impossibly, the still, stifling air smelled like flowers.

 

* * *

 

As a rule, Makoto did not ride with Rin unless he had to.

Increasingly, it seemed that he had to.

 

* * *

 

At the stroke of 12:12 am on the first of July, the moon was a picture of white serenity in the sky overhead, the telephone wires buzzed and the chilli-red Mazda roared in the _general_ direction of Jinbocho, by way of a scenic drive up towards the northern districts of Tokyo, past the banks of the Sumida River and then through Asakusa, which was to say, not quite in the _specific_ direction of Jinbocho at all.

It didn't matter. They'd arrive eventually. With any luck, before the week was out. The thing about Rin - one of many _things_ about Rin, really - was that he didn't know any gears between first and approximately six hundred and sixty-sixth. Anything he drove either purred stealthily or _roared_.

But getting places, for Rin and Makoto, wasn't a matter of speed. It was a matter of how soon they decided they wanted the car to stop.

Makoto sat in Rin's front seat, arms crossed. He was too put out at the present moment to remember to feel carsick.

"You _said_ \- "

"I know what I said!"

" - it was _him_ ," Makoto finished, pressing on relentlessly.

"It _was_ , I'm telling you."

"How do you _know_?" Makoto asked. "I mean, you only met him when he was a _baby_ , right?"

Rin frowned.

"I remember his eyes," he said, after a while. "They were blue. That Ai kid has blue eyes."

Makoto gave Rin a level stare. "Blue eyes."

"Hey, c'mon, how many people in this country have blue eyes?"

Makoto had to give that to Rin. Still, he was not _entirely_ satisfied; if Nitori Aiichirou were not, in fact, the _Enemy_ , it would answer more questions than it raised, and while Makoto was usually all for having his questions addressed, this particular solution would leave them with the _tiny_ matter of a misplaced Antichrist to deal with.

Rin's voice cut into his thoughts. "Don't give me that _look_."

"What look?"

"You know what look, Makoto. That one."

"You're not even _looking_ at me, Rin," Makoto protested.

"I don't have to," said Rin. "I'm _very_ familiar with that look. The one that's like, _Rin, you fucked up_."

"Well - "

"Someone else must be interfering," Rin muttered.

"There isn't _anyone else_ ," Makoto said, very reasonably. "There's just us. The good guys. And you."

"The bad guys, yeah, yeah. Okay, look, if there isn't anyone else, then _you_ come up with some explanation, angel."

Makoto turned to stare at the road ahead of them. He sighed, and slumped in his seat.

"Maybe they forgot to release the hound?" he suggested, with a vague sort of scrabbling hopefulness.

"They _wouldn't_ \- oh hell, okay, I'll ask."

Rin took a hand off the wheel to thump the controls of his radio. "Hey. Seijuurou. You there?"

A howling guitar riff shredded the air between them.

"What _is_ this music?" Makoto asked.

"Same music as always. Good ol' Freddie."

"Ah," said Makoto. "That King guy."

" _Queen_. Oi, Seijuurou, I need you!"

Good ol' Freddie, midway through belting a line about females with ample posteriors, suddenly crackled and coughed into a cloud of static. The speakers blared a loud, tinny screech that echoed off the Mazda's roof and all round the backseat.

Outside, a stray cat stopped and stared in disapproval.

"Er," said Makoto.

Rin smacked him on the arm. "Shhh," he hissed. "You're not here."

" _Rin? What do you want?_ "

Makoto clamped his mouth shut and tried to be as not-here as possible. He stopped breathing.

"Hey. Seijuurou. About that hound," said Rin.

" _Fine animal, eh?_ "

Makoto had not had the dubious pleasure of meeting Seijuurou, Duke of Hell, but he sounded like an energetic, clap-you-on-the-back kind of guy, not really like someone to be feared, which, thought Makoto, probably meant that he was to be feared about twice as much as Rin.

" _Hey, whaddaya think of his coat?_ "

"His _coat_?" Rin repeated, flatly.

" _Yeah. So glossy and black. I got Momo to give him one hundred brushes before releasing him. You know how Momo is with animals -_ "

"Yes. Glossy. Yes, it was very - very black," said Rin. "Bye."

He switched off the radio.

Makoto stared at him. "Why did you do that?"

"Got our answer, didn't we? They released the hound."

"Well, yes, but you didn't have to end your conversation in such a _suspicious_ manner," Makoto pointed out.

Rin waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, well. Everyone in Hell is suspicious of everyone else already."

In the sudden silence that flooded the car, bereft of Seijuurou's booming voice and Freddie's dulcet tones, the slight, frustrated hiss that slipped out of Rin's lips as he floored the accelerator rang loud and clear.

Makoto braced himself, and cleared his throat. "So - "

He was interrupted by a sudden, incongruous _pop_ sound. A tiny wisp of smoke curled out of the powered-down radio.

Rin swore. " _Shit._ That was fast."

"I told you you were suspicious," Makoto said, in reproving tones.

"Shut up. You're still not here."

The radio fuzzed and made a few sputtering noises. Impossibly, the jangly tune about well-endowed women started up again, but there was something dissonant about it; something that echoed emptily through huge caverns, something that dragged and sounded like a minor key, a minor chord, where there shouldn't have been any.

Makoto, whose ears were accustomed to a finely curated aural diet of orchestral music and the occasional (okay, not so occasional) Broadway showtune, winced.

_You make my rockin' world go -_

" _RIN._ "

"That's my name, don't shout," said Rin, glaring at the radio. "What?"

" _You fucked up, didn't you?_ "

Seijuurou spoke like he was asking about the weather. Like he was remarking, _hot, isn't it? This summer… feels like hell. Ha ha. Like hell. Get it? Hell's pretty hot too. Oh, we've got pits of fire and our air-conditioning's permanently on the blink. How're you doing?_

Like that. Pretty much.

Rin was silent for a second too long. Makoto, on the verge of a nervous gulp, remembered that he wasn't here, and settled for glowing a faint, feathery white instead.

Rin shot a pointed stare in his direction. Makoto gave him a helpless shrug in response. He had to channel that energy _somewhere_ , didn't he?

"Yeah." Rin scowled. "I fucked up, okay? I'll - I'll take responsibility."

" _Rin!_ " Makoto whispered fiercely.

" _What was that?_ "

"Nothing." Rin reached out to punch Makoto on the arm. "So? What'll it be? Vaporisation?"

" _Rin. Please. You're not getting out of this so easy._ "

"Oh?"

The corner of Rin's mouth twitched. His skin always looked extra pale after midnight. In the ghostly half-light of the moon, he looked more like the serpent of Eden than he had in a millennium. He laughed, raw and throaty.

"Something worse, then? Can you give me… like, ten minutes? I have to park my car somewhere it won't get damaged."

" _You can have more than ten minutes. I'm feeling generous. You've got… hmm._ "

The still, ominous pause hung in the air as Seijuurou trailed off. Makoto's glow brightened.

" _One month._ "

"Huh. One whole month," said Rin.

The Mazda shot through a red light like a comet.

Makoto sank down in his seat. His stomach did a small flip-flop of protest as he watched the speedometer on Rin's dashboard tick upwards, slowly and steadily.

He had a funny feeling about all this.

"Wow, Seijuurou, that's _really_ generous. I'm sure I can sell my car to a good buyer. One month. And then?"

" _Then you'd better find him, you asshole._ "

Rin's mouth dropped open, gaping. Makoto's didn't. He'd figured it out approximately thirty seconds before Rin. He had to hand it to the Dukes of Hell; they sure knew how to make a punishment suck.

" _Huh?_ Excuse me?"

" _You, Mister I'll-Take-Responsibility. Fix your fuck-up. Find the boss's kid. One month._ "

Rin swallowed.

"And then?" he asked again.

Makoto couldn't see Seijuurou, but he could swear he _heard_  him smile. The temperature in the car dropped, roughly, three point five degrees Centigrade; or did it rise? Was it warmer or colder? Makoto couldn't tell.

" _Then they ride_."

Abruptly, the radio fuzzed into dead silence.

Rin drove in a straight line for five more minutes. Makoto stared out of the window.

"Fuck," said Rin.

" _Language_ ," Makoto murmured.

Rin's gaze flickered briefly round in his direction.

"Turn that down, would you? You're blinding me."

"What - oh. Sorry. I didn't realise I was still doing it."

"You're like a regular fucking thousand-watt lightbulb."

They wound out of the seedy night lights of Asakusa, past a gaggle of drunken salarymen and round a corner that smelled so strongly of _yakiniku_ that Makoto's mouth watered.

"Well," he said, "at least you won't have to sell your car for one month."

"I'm _not_ selling my damn car," Rin muttered.

Makoto had thought so. Rin was, for some reason, very fond of the Mazda.

"Then we'd better find this kid, hmm?" he said lightly.

He reached out to pop Rin's current CD out of the radio, rifled through the car's impeccably organised glove compartment, and replaced it with the soundtrack of _A Little Night Music_.

Rin drove him home to the thumping beat of Sondheim's "Another One Bites The Dust".

 

* * *

 

All the teachers of Iwatobi Elementary agreed, without exception, that Nanase Haruka was a student of singular ability, and that they had never seen his like before.

He excelled at arts and crafts, and home economics. His skill with a sharp knife and a fresh slab of fish was far advanced beyond his tender years. In his hands, a pencil became a mighty weapon. He breathed life into his drawings of the ocean. He was also very deft with a needle. He made beautiful little stitches in his seams.

In most of his academic subjects, he was strictly middling. But now and then, inexplicably, young Nanase would demonstrate flashes of brilliance that were completely at odds with anything his teachers had seen of him thus far. He scored top marks on any science quiz to do with marine life. His multiplication tables eluded him, but long division, that devil's arithmetic, seemed to come as naturally as breathing.

His English was dreadful, but one day, the school's young brunette English teacher (here on a foreign exchange from California) came belting into the staff room panting, breathless, that Nanase Haruka had just turned in a test with almost every single answer wrong, but which bore, in the corner, a perfectly written stanza of verse from "Bohemian Rhapsody".

He was really _unaccountably_ slow on the track, and this only drove a growing bevy of physical education teachers to frustration, year on year, because it wasn't like Nanase was _bad_ at sports. Quite the opposite, in fact.

When they asked him about swimming, he simply said, very seriously, "The water likes me."

Nanase was a boy of few words. This made his choice of companions even more unlikely. Nonetheless, there they were, the four of Them, and they had been a Thing for as long as anyone could remember. They were a part of Iwatobi, a part of what pulsed in the heart of this sleepy port town, like the seasons and the squid festival, like the crystal clear river that ran through the outskirts near the elementary school.

 

* * *

 

Today, Haruka had won the _jan-ken-pon_ and so it was to his favourite place that they went.

"It's your birthday luck, Haru-chan!" Nagisa declared.

"It's not my birthday any more," Haruka said.

"You must be _extra_ lucky then, 'cos, like, it hasn't worn off!"

"This is very unscientific, Nagisa-kun, probability simply dictates that - "

Conveniently, a stray leaf flew into Rei's face just then, and he coughed and raised his hands to swat it away to the sound of Nagisa's bubbling laughter and Makkou's barks.

It was warm and breezy, perfect weather for the beach, as it always was when Haruka won the _jan-ken-pon_. They had shucked their threadbare sandals by the boardwalk and raced down to the water's edge. The sand was fine between their toes.

They stopped to change by a shelf of dry rock, and it was there that Nagisa was having a crisis.

On average, Nagisa had a crisis approximately twice a day, and thus, the others were none too perturbed; on this particular occasion, however, the cry that pierced the air made the seagulls scatter in a flurry of squawks and flapping wings, and even Haruka turned to look. Makkou, sniffing around Nagisa's feet, let out a small whine.

"I - I can't wear _this_!"

Rei pushed his glasses up his nose in a learned manner, and solemnly studied the garment in Nagisa's hands.

"That," he pronounced, "is not beautiful."

And Yazaki Aki shook her head in mock despair, because, coming from Rei, this was a nothing less than a death sentence.

Ryugazaki Rei gave the impression that he had been born wearing glasses and had the mental age of roughly forty-seven. He was the top student in their grade, the younger son of two university professors, and he led a respectable lifestyle revolving around books, barley tea and aesthetically pleasing physical exercise. Or at least, he tried.

Once, he had made a brave attempt at ice skating. The excursion had not ended well. Nagisa still had the photographs on his wall.

"Rei-kun, it's a perfectly nice swimsuit," said Aki firmly, crossing her arms.

"For _girls!_ " wailed Nagisa, as he waved the offending article in Aki's face. "I can't _believe_ her!"

"Who?" asked Aki.

"My sister! I don't know which one, but - but I can't wear _this_ , Zaki-chan… what should I do?"

Aki gave the question all the due consideration it deserved.

"Well," she offered, "you could…"

"I _know_ , I'll just swim naked!"

Rei shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another. "My mother says that's bad. The sea is dirty. And a jellyfish might sting you in the _unmentionables_."

Nagisa stared. "What are unmentionables, Rei-chan?"

"Nagisa-kun," said Aki, with a long-suffering air, "just don't."

Yazaki Aki had short hair with a braid in it, a smile like a sunflower and a laugh like a tinkling windchime. She was well-liked in class and helped to clean the blackboard regularly. She lived near the empty premises of the old Iwatobi Swimming Club, and it was there that she had first met Nanase Haruka by cycling straight into him on a wobbly bicycle, as he stood, silent, in front of a dusty, long-deserted doorway.

The townsfolk of Iwatobi often wondered how it was that a sweet girl like Yazaki Aki made a habit of hanging out with such miscreants. The answer, in the unfathomable way of children, was simpler than breathing.

She was faster than all of them in the water except for Haruka, faster than all of them on land except for Rei, and faster than all of them in cottoning on to mischief except for Nagisa.

This made her their favourite.

_Grownups always make things so complicated._

"But, Zaki-chan…"

Aki frowned. "No. Why don't you go home and get your swimsuit?"

There was a stirring in the sand from Haruka's direction. Nagisa, midway through taking a breath, stopped and looked up.

"Nagisa."

Aki turned. Rei, cleaning his glasses, put them down on the rock shelf and blinked into the sunlight, reflecting off Haruka's dark hair. Makkou sat back on his haunches and gazed up with a look of pure adoration on his face. A hush seemed to fall even over the waves, the sounds of their crashing muted on the shore.

Whenever Haruka spoke, the world held its breath.

"Haru-chan?"

"Does it really bother you so much?"

Nagisa's lower lip trembled, ever so slightly. It seemed silly, of course, when Haruka asked the question; he had a way of making things seem trivial, but - at the same time -

"Y-yes," Nagisa mumbled. "I don't like it. You know what it's like, Haru-chan, with my sisters…"

"Yeah," said Haruka. "I know. Here. You can wear mine."

"Eh?"

Nagisa stared. Haruka, nonchalantly, as he did everything else, flicked a pair of turquoise-green trunks at Nagisa. They landed on his shoulder.

"Then - what about _you_ , Haruka-kun?" Aki asked.

Haruka shrugged. "I'll wear Nagisa's."

"But Nagisa-kun, he - his swimsuit - it's a _girl's_ one - " Rei sputtered, putting his glasses back on.

"It doesn't matter. Once I'm in the water, it doesn't care what I'm wearing. As long as I can swim, it's okay."

Haruka walked over to them, plucked the girl's swimsuit out of Nagisa's hands, and disappeared behind the rock without a further word.

Aki, Nagisa and Rei watched, open-mouthed.

"It's still not beautiful," muttered Rei.

"I don't think Haruka-kun cares," Aki mused.

"Ahhhh," Nagisa groaned. "I should've just worn it myself!"

Makkou's answering bark seemed to say, _I told you so._

 

* * *

 

“The _ocean_?”

“Yeah,” said Rin, leaning back on Makoto’s couch, which was steadily turning the colour of volcanic ash and taking on the distinct fragrance of sulphur.

Makoto gave the air a forlorn sniff, and sighed inwardly. This always happened, and he always changed it back to pristine off-white leather afterwards, but it was never quite the _same_. He wondered if his living room would ever smell the same again. He always wondered this whenever Rin came round.

Rin, having deposited Makoto at his doorstep around two o'clock in the morning, had declared that he couldn't be fucked to drive home that night and promptly fallen asleep on said couch. Makoto had woken to several unfamiliar things: the smell of coffee, the droning voice of NHK's morning news anchor, and the sight of a demon tidying up his living room.

("Where did you get the coffee?" he mumbled, wrinkling his nose.

"I asked the Fifth Circle to send me some. _Good morning_ to you too, by the way. Rude."

Makoto ignored this.

" _Anger?_ They do coffee?" he asked.

"Yeah," said Rin. "Nothing like fresh coffee, flavoured with red-hot temper tantrums."

"Sounds strong," Makoto remarked.

"You have no idea, angel."

"Don't stack the magazines in alphabetical order. Just leave them like that."

"…this place is a _pigsty_.")

The bookstore was closed today. It was not a day for Makoto to invest his energies into kindly rebuffing mortals with eclectic tastes in literature. They had, instead, sat on the couch to watch the news, sharing a bowl of ginger snaps which Makoto had baked all by himself the week before. He was very proud of them. Rin deemed them _barely edible_ and _too damn sweet_.

Their current debate had been sparked off by a news update on an oil spill off the coast of the Sea of Japan. There had been an emergency evacuation of fourteen dolphins from a nearby amusement park, which drew water from the sea. Rin had been somewhat disconcerted.

"The ocean can't be _yours_. It's _neutral_ ," Makoto protested.

“Not all of it. Just, like. The Marianas Trench. The _bottom_ of the ocean. You know, way down where the sun don't shine?"

"Huh," said Makoto.

"Yeah," said Rin.

"That seems unfair," Makoto pointed out. "You've already got the whole of Hell to play in."

"I guess _he_ got bored of fire and brimstone. Gets pretty hot down there. Only made sense to expand upwards… where did you think all that weird shit in the deep sea came from?”

“Oh, you know.” Makoto said, gesturing vaguely. “Ineffable… stuff.”

“Nah. Straight from the minds of the Lords of Hell. C’mon, Makoto, have you _seen_ the vampire squid?”

Makoto shuddered.

Rin shot him a grin, all sharp teeth and flash of tongue. A tendril of smoke curled up and out of a charred black armrest.

Makoto frowned, and stood up. There was only one appropriate response in this situation, really, or in any situation.

“I’m going to make some tea," he said. "And then, we're going to make a Plan to find this boy."

In the background, neither of them noticed the news camera zoom in on a small town in Tottori-ken, the only town on the coast where the waters remained mysteriously oil-free.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone hasn't seen it: Nagisa's swimsuit episode was inspired by [NagiHaru's first meeting](http://free-anime.wikia.com/wiki/Memories_of_Nagisa_and_Haruka%E2%80%99s_First_Meeting).  
> And we finally have a canon image of Aki! Hurrah.
> 
> Tune in next time for: sea-related hijinks and adventures with the Horsemen.


	6. delivery for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haruka surveys his kingdom, and we meet the world's most unlucky delivery boy.

"Rin… there's, like… something I've. Always wanted. To ask. To ask you."

Makoto's words slurred on his tongue. They felt like mush. His mouth felt like mush. A choir of angels sang in his head while tap-dancing. Rin was upside down.

Well, Rin was not _literally_ upside down. He just _looked_ upside down. It wasn't a bad look for him. His chin stood out more from this angle. It seemed sharper, and his limbs longer, almost - well, serpentine.

Makoto, sprawled out across his couch with his head tipped back over the armrest, let his arm drop. It hit the wooden floor with a dull _thunk_ , empty sake bottle rolling away slowly as his fingers slackened their unsteady grip round the glass.

Rin, leaning forward from where he was perched on a charred black bar stool, set his own bottle down on the kitchen counter and stared at Makoto through glassy, half-lidded eyes. It occurred to Makoto, from his vantage point, that eyelids really were a peculiar piece of human anatomy. Little flaps of skin that could be moved independently. _Really, who thinks up something like that…_

The thought petered out in the warm fuzz of his brain. He felt so _comfortable._ His couch was so soft. The drone of the NHK in the background was so pleasantly monotonous.

"Ask me?" Rin mumbled. "Wha… whassit?"

"'S very important. A matter of great import - import _ance_. To Heavenly investigations."

Makoto made this declaration with as much gusto as he could manage, raising one arm weakly into the air to point an accusing finger at Rin.

"Why," he asked, "are your teeth."

"Why are my teeth," Rin repeated.

"Yeah," said Makoto. "Pointy."

"Pointy."

" _Sharp._ "

Through Rin's parted lips, Makoto saw him flick his tongue across his upper teeth.

"They are, huh," said Rin, cocking his head to one side in puzzlement, like it was the first time he'd noticed.

"You could have, mmm… I dunno. Fixed 'em," said Makoto. "When you went human."

"I guess I didn't think about it," said Rin.

Makoto jabbed a pointed finger in Rin's direction. "You didn't think 'bout your eyes, either."

Rin glared. "What's wrong with my eyes?"

"They're _red_?"

"So?"

"Humans don't have red eyes. 'S not normal."

Rin, with an admirable effort, shrugged. The motion undulated down his shoulders and back in a decidedly un-human manner.

"Who the fuck cares? I look _cool_."

Makoto let out an undignified giggle.

Rin picked up a piece of chocolate from the candy bowl on the kitchen counter, and threw it at him. It hit Makoto in the centre of his forehead. He yelped, then took a deep breath and shuddered.

Angels and demons, unlike mortals, did not actually _get_ drunk. Their constitutions functioned on a plane of existence wholly separate from the effects of alcohol. Nonetheless, they could, _if_ they so wished, _allow_ themselves to get drunk; the effects of which were often quite spectacular, given that the hallucinations of celestial beings were nothing quite like those of humans.

Rin and Makoto had just a little more experience than most of their counterparts in the art of getting drunk. Over the years, they had also developed an admittedly somewhat crude, but effective, signal to each other that they should cease this state of being immediately.

The signal comprised, simply: throwing something at the other person.

(And for Rin, it was more often than not triggered by the emergence of Makoto's drunk giggle, which unnerved him more thoroughly than he could ever describe to the angel.

Makoto never remembered making that noise after they sobered up. Rin never forgot the sound of it.)

"Ugh," said Makoto, easing himself upright. He shook his head and blinked several times, groaning, as the last vestiges of alcohol left his system.

Rin raised his hands to his temples and massaged them roughly. "I feel like shit."

"Me too. What… what were we talking about?"

"Can't remember."

Rin reached into the candy bowl again and popped a mint into his mouth.

Makoto frowned. "I feel like it was important."

"How important could it have been? We were _drunk_."

Makoto, slumped against his couch, eyed the impressive pyramid of beer cans and sake bottles that had accumulated on his coffee table, and the equivalent pile by Rin's elbow. The afternoon sun hit him square in the face through his blinds. He squinted at Rin, who was fiddling with his hair, tying it back in a ponytail.

"Why did we decide to get drunk in the first place?"

"Because," said Rin, and stopped.

" _Rin_."

"Shut up, angel. I'm trying to _think_ here - I have a bloody great headache, so be quiet - "

Makoto sat bolt upright. "The _baby_!"

Rin hissed in annoyance. "Why'd you have to go and remember _that_?"

"It really _was_ kind of your fault," said Makoto, giving Rin a look of wounded reproach.

"All right, all right. So what now?"

Makoto sighed and rubbed his eyes.

Things had been so much simpler when they were raising Nitori Aiichirou, the model of Perfectly Average Young Boy, and fighting each other _just_ enough to keep the higher-ups in a state of general satisfaction. Makoto did not enjoy complications. They made him stressed, and when he was stressed, he had an unfortunate tendency to glow.

Unlike Rin, Makoto took his undercover status very seriously and tried to keep his non-humanness to himself. Most of the time.

"What if," said Makoto. "What if you asked your sister. And the other guys."

"How the fuck do I do that?" Rin snapped. "It's not like I see them all the time. Or like, _ever_."

"Yeah, but they're supposed to be, like… _his_ army, right?"

"You mean the kid's? _Technically_ , all of Hell is his army."

"I mean, his Generals. His commanders. Something. They're supposed to heed his call. Be attracted to his presence. I don't know." Makoto waved vaguely. "I'm making it up, Rin, _I'm_ not the Agent of Darkness here."

Rin crossed his arms and gave Makoto a level glare. "And what will _you_ do while I'm on this wild goose chase?"

"Run my bookshop," said Makoto, green eyes twinkling. "Drink tea. Pray for you."

" _Oh_ , very funny - "

"Hey, I'm not the one who lost my boss's kid."

Rin mumbled something under his breath.

"What was that?" Makoto asked.

"Something rude," said Rin.

Makoto smiled.

He stretched his arms out across the back of his couch, and watched the NHK weather report inform him that today would be a lovely, sunny day across most of the country, with highs of 27°C in Tokyo.

 _Next up,_ said the voiceover, _following the oil spill news, a special report on the effects of pollution on marine wildlife in Japan._

"Tell you what I'll do," Makoto said, tapping his chin contemplatively. "I'll watch TV."

 

* * *

 

People talked about her.

Not the people who made the headlines, or the stars of the sports pages. Her name wasn't one that was known in households or splashed across magazines, but among those in a certain inner circle, she was spoken of in hushed whispers.

 _That team doesn't know what it's got in its manager,_ they'd say; seasoned men with years of experience behind them, men who gathered in pubs and shared stories of how their champion athletes had just had their asses handed to them by a bunch of kids wet behind the ears.

It had to be the coach, said casual fans and those who didn't know better, and no one ever noticed the girl with the red hair and the clipboard always standing in the background.

The few who _did_ know better wondered how she did it. How she always knew _just_ how to steer her team, and how she knew everything about her opposition, every one of their weak points, how the victories came so easily when she was there, and why she never stayed longer than one season with one team - or one sport.

Tennis, track and field, golf - she'd run the gauntlet - and she found herself, now, in a place very much to her liking, if only for the superior view.

"It's pronounced _Kou_ ," said the red-haired girl, with the long-suffering air of someone who'd made this correction one too many times over the centuries.

"Ah - my apologies, Kou-san - "

"It's okay," said Kou.

She twirled her pencil in her hand. She'd put up with some mangling of her name, for muscles like these. _Yes_ , this was where she belonged - not among the stuffy suits and the tepid instant coffee of air-conditioned boardrooms - _this_ , this was truly where her passion was.

The diplomatic service had been fun for a few decades, but the time had come to move on. And war and peace played out in this Olympic theatre the old-fashioned way, with brains _and_ brawn, just how she liked it. Except with less blood (which, frankly, was _much_ preferred; spatter was very troublesome to get off one's clothes).

"So, Kou-san, about today's race…"

"Yes," said Kou, with a smile. "Gather the team."

As her new captain nodded and disappeared into the locker room, she heard a quiet, unassuming cough from beside her, and turned. There was a delivery boy standing next to her, wearing a peaked cap and holding out a box.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello, miss," said the boy. "I've got something for you."

Kou reached out and took the package. It was long and thin, but light in her hands. The weight was familiar, and comforting.

"You need me to sign?" she asked, picking up her pencil.

"Ah, yes, but your pencil won't work. Where is it - ah, here you go - "

The delivery boy held out a pen the colour of ebony at midnight, and a piece of paper that smelled like hot coals.

"Your real name, please," he added.

Kou took the pen. It was warm. She signed, and left a trail of flame across the page in the wake of her intricate scribbles. The _kanji_ for her real name was awfully complex.

"Much obliged," said the boy, rolling the paper up and tipping his hat.

Kou turned her attention to the box. She tore the tape off one end, carefully, and unravelled the brown paper wrapping to reveal a slender black box.

She lifted the lid.

"Finally," she breathed.

She could have taken it out here. It wasn't like anyone would really _see_ the katana, as it was. Humans always saw what they wished to. But it seemed somewhat indecent, almost, to be so flashy; she'd take it out in private after she'd handed in her resignation and made herself scarce, and then -

Well, and then. _It was time._

"By the way…"

She looked up, surprised. The delivery boy was still there, hitching his satchel on his shoulder.

"I believe your brother's looking for you," he said, and walked away.

 

* * *

 

Makkou the dog had made it a habit to run to school with Haruka every day, tail wagging eagerly as he kept pace with his master's bicycle. Sometimes he raced Nagisa on foot, chasing the younger boy's laughter into the sun; sometimes, he let out small joyful barks when Aki scratched him between his ears and fed him a treat. He had a predilection for squid, a happy coincidence given the primary fishing output of the town.

He would sit on his haunches by the school gates and wait there, keeping an amiable and peaceful vigil, until Haruka emerged wheeling his bicycle. And then he'd lead the way, loping ahead and across the bridge, towards the mountains.

He needed no leash or instruction. He went where Haruka did.

No one in Iwatobi remarked, or seemed to find, that there was anything odd about this behaviour. Haruka himself did not find anything odd about it. Makkou was his dog, and that was what dogs did. They were good friends. They kept their masters company.

So it went, and so it was.

So went the first week of July and the ongoing summer term in Iwatobi, where Haruka and his gang of miscreants, and, indeed, most of the fishermen and townsfolk, remained only vaguely aware of the oil spill just beyond their clear blue waters. One of their number, _slightly_ more perceptive, remarked that he'd had a higher than usual volume of orders for squid from the next town over, and his colleagues chimed in - indeed, the demand for fish seemed to be rather high -

And, contented with their lot, they'd waved each other off at the pier and headed home.

The late afternoon was beautiful, warm on the shores of the sea where Haruka whiled away his childhood, drawing patterns in the sand with sturdy sticks that Makkou fetched for him, trying - and inevitably, failing - to teach Rei to swim, and as the sun went down, floating on his back, closing his eyes as the waves whispered secrets to him.

 _Tadaima_ , he said under his breath when he stepped into the waters.

 _Okaeri_ , he heard the sea murmur in response.

In the distance, the song of the dolphins rang in his ears.

 

* * *

 

The man in the white suit frowned prettily, and tucked a flyway strand of pink hair behind his ear.

"Tell me," he said, to his dining companion, "how do you find that?"

"Divine," she purred. "As is everything else you put out."

She blew a grape-scented purple bubble at him, and sucked it back in with a smile. Her teeth were impossibly pristine; Kisumi had been very careful to tweak the formula of his new product so that they left no stains when chewed. His clientele _were_ very particular about their appearance.

He swirled the straw in his milkshake, and took a sip. It was pure froth, of course, all artificial strawberry flavouring, aspartame and something a little _extra_ that Kisumi threw into all his foods to keep his customers happy and satisfied with their zero calorie intake.

It was a roaring success. No one made _slim_ and _beautiful_ quite like Kisumi did.

"It's not too… I don't know, too _sweet_ , or something? The taste is really important to get right, you know," said Kisumi.

"You're such a perfectionist, Kisumi! This new gum is genius! Everything you need in a balanced diet, without actually having to _eat_ anything?"

"You flatter me," Kisumi demurred, giving her a lazy smile through half-lidded lashes.

"E-excuse me? Are you - "

Kisumi turned to see a breathless young woman, staring at them with flushed pink cheeks. An athlete's build, thought Kisumi, appraising her body with a practised eye. She probably worked out in her attempts to get skinny. She was the very picture of glowing health.

 _Not for much longer._ Kisumi had a feeling.

"You're - _that_ famous model! I see your ads in Shibuya all the time…"

Kisumi watched his companion flash a bewitching smile from across the table, sign a napkin and pose for a photograph. He hid his own satisfied grin behind one well-manicured hand and took another sip from his milkshake.

"But, darling," she said to the starry-eyed fan, with a conspiratorial wink, "I can't recommend _this_ highly enough if you're trying to lose weight. Kisumi, you don't mind, do you?"

Kisumi gestured gallantly. "Please. Anything to help a lady."

"You're _such_ a good guy… here, take this new sample of Kisumi's grape bubblegum. It isn't even in stores yet. It's going to be _all_ the rage."

"Ki - "

The woman turned her wide-eyed gaze on him, as her fingers clenched tight round her prize.

"You're - not _the_ Kisumi? The one who owns this restaurant?"

Kisumi inclined his head. "Guilty as charged, I'm afraid."

She gasped. Kisumi laid a long finger on his lips, then brought it to hers. He felt her shiver at his touch, and smiled.

"Shhh," he said. "I'm _incognito_ today."

The woman clamped her mouth shut, nodded giddily, and staggered away.

"You're _far_ too young and charming to look like a stuffy business owner," remarked his dining companion, the model.

Kisumi opened his mouth to offer an appropriately witty rejoinder, but just then, he was interrupted by the arrival of a waiter. An unfamiliar waiter, with what looked like a check on a small silver plate.

Kisumi raised an eyebrow, and sat up straighter.

 _Interesting_ , he thought.

He had never seen an unfamiliar waiter before. He made it a point to be personally familiar with every single one of his service staff. This one had a face so nondescript and features so unremarkable that he would be impossible to pick out of a lineup, but, still -

Kisumi wasn't in the habit of forgetting a face.

Neither was he in the habit of getting the check at his own restaurant.

"I didn't call for this," he said pleasantly, as the waiter came to a stop by their table.

"Pardon, Sir," said the water. "I've got something for you that needs your signature."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small box and handed it to Kisumi, along with a bone-white pen.

"Ah," said Kisumi. "I see."

He took both items, and signed his real name in a flowing, elegant script, leaving lines of dust and chalk that flew away on an invisible breeze.

The waiter nodded, straightened his collar and walked away.

"What's that?" asked Kisumi's companion, leaning curiously across the table.

Kisumi unwrapped the box. Inside, there sat a small pair of gleaming brass scales. He lifted them out, and clicked his tongue.

"Trouble," he said, jewelled eyes glinting by the chandelier's light.

 

* * *

 

Haruka sat on top of the playground slide, and surveyed his kingdom. At present, said kingdom comprised a sandcastle with misshapen turrets and a sludgy moat, a most keen-eyed guard dog, some upended buckets which Rei had fashioned into a sort of mecha army, and an expanse of dry grass that stretched from the edge of the sandpit to the swings.

"How's _that_ , Haru-chan?"

Nagisa beamed, standing with his hands on his hips.

Haruka nodded in satisfaction. "Good."

"Think we can defeat the evil pirates?"

"Wait," said Rei, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Where did the pirates come from?"

"From the _moat_ ," said Aki, eyes dancing.

"Zaki-chan, that doesn't make any sense…"

Makkou's bark cut Rei off mid-sentence, and Nagisa laughed joyfully as the dog nipped round Rei's ankles, making the younger boy yelp.

Haruka stared at the sandcastle. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something... something missing...

He slid down slowly, and dusted off his forearms as he crouched by the sandpit.

"You know what we _really_ need?" he said, starting to draw with a grubby finger.

The boys and Aki gathered around him, gazing down at the lines Haruka was making in the sand. Makkou remained by the castle, like the steadfast sentinel he was.

"A flag for the kingdom," said Haruka, firmly. "With a mascot."

He drew a large triangular pennant, and paused, finger hovering over the blank space in the middle.

"It should be a _penguin_ ," said Nagisa immediately.

"Why a penguin, Nagisa-kun?" Aki asked.

"For Iwatobi! The rockhopper penguin!"

"But a penguin won't scare away the bad guys," Rei protested.

Haruka pondered this.

"Rei is right," he said. "It's just not cool enough."

"We- _ell_ …"

Nagisa plopped himself down in the sand next to Haruka. He leaned back on his palms, and stared at the sky.

"What if Iwatobi-chan was a _special_ penguin? With, like, a superhero costume!"

"Iwatobi-chan?" Aki repeated, the sunflower smile breaking out on her face.

"Yeah! Iwatobi-chan!"

Haruka sketched a round head and smaller body in the sand. He added two wings, a pair of skinny legs and swimming trunks.

"That doesn't really look like a penguin," said Rei, frowning. "Why does it have swimming trunks?"

"To swim," said Haruka, solemnly. He added a mackerel in its triangular beak. As an an afterthought, he drew in the faint lines of a cape flapping behind its wings.

"Dark Hero Iwatobi-chan…" Haruka murmured.

It had a nice ring to it.

"I saw a report on the NHK last week - "

"Rei- _chan_ , no one wants to hear about your boring news!"

"No, it was about _penguins!_ " Rei said, flushing red and pushing up his glasses. "It was about how they're _endangered_. Because of pollution and stuff."

"What's _en-dan-gered_?" asked Nagisa, staring at Rei.

"It means they're dying," Rei pronounced in solemn tones. " _All_ of 'em."

Haruka's head snapped up.

"Because of pollu - pollution? What does _that_ mean?"

"I think it means, like, rubbish in the ocean," Aki said thoughtfully.

"I don't understand," Nagisa complained. "Why does rubbish kill penguins?"

"Not just penguins," Rei added. "The news talked about all kinds of other animals in the sea, too… dolphins, and sperm whales."

"Rei-chan, why do you watch such _awful_ stuff on TV? There are cartoons!"

"Father says it's important to watch the news! That's how we learn things and stuff."

Haruka frowned. He was troubled.

He looked down at his drawing of Dark Hero Iwatobi-chan. He thought about the penguins, the dolphins and the sperm whales. He thought about the ocean, and all the things in it. In the back of his mind, something stirred into wakefulness.

And somewhere in the distance, far, far away from their playground kingdom, the waves swelled.

 

* * *

 

The delivery boy let out a sigh as he stepped off the rickety wooden boat.

This one really took the cake, he thought, slapping a mosquito away with one hand. The job where he'd had to get a waiter to swap outfits with him _just_ to get into the restaurant had been a doozy, but at least he'd been in a civilised city. Or any kind of a city at all.

He looked at the address printed on this package, just to be sure. Yup. There it was.

**_Amazon Rainforest (the heart of)_ **

"Well," said the delivery boy, out loud, "here I am. Where _are_ you?"

And as if on cue, a spindly line of writing formed beneath the first on the brown paper label.

**_follow the beetles_ **

He looked down.

There was a striking little red and black beetle by his foot, scuttling away into the undergrowth. The delivery boy picked up a stick, shoved the (probably man-eating) plants aside and made his way through, taking a deep breath.

His foot very nearly landed on a giant rhinoceros beetle.

It turned to give him what he could swear was a baleful glare, if beetles _could_ glare; it clicked its antler-like appendages and darted across the forest floor.

The delivery boy followed, and as the beetles grew in number, size and colour, so, too, did the trees all around him, and the air seemed to grow mistier, cooler. Now and then, he caught sight of a swarm of butterflies overhead.

_Insects._

Insects, everywhere.

"Isn't it _amazing_?" he heard someone breathe, in reverent tones.

He looked up. The orange beetles that had led him here made a beeline for the one who had spoken.

This one was young, like all the others had been. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and carried a backpack smeared with dirt. His hair was the colour of a monarch butterfly's wing, and he was cradling a Hercules beetle in his palms, gazing at it with pure affection.

The delivery boy steeled himself, and held out his parcel and clipboard at arm's length.

"I've got a delivery for you, Mr… Mr Momotarou."

"Just Momo is fine! Oooh, what's this?"

Momo reached out and took the package.

" _Oh_ ," he said, eyes widening. "I know what this is. Wow. Is it time _already_?"

The delivery boy said nothing. His job was very nearly done. Just one more after this.

Momo picked up the pen. It was brown, the colour of decaying leaf litter, and as he signed his real name on the paper, his messy scrawl left streaks of something that smelled suspiciously rotten.

"Thanks," said the delivery boy. "Happy… uh, beetle-hunting."

"Oh, I'm not hunting them," said Momo absently. "They just come to me."

He'd torn open the parcel, and taken out the item inside, a shiny silver crown that was rapidly tarnishing in his hands.

"Right. Okay, then."

The delivery boy nodded. He turned back.

As he tramped through the forest, leaves squelching beneath his boots, he took out his next package to check the address. He read it once. Twice.

He blinked and read it again.

 ** _Everywhere_** , it said.

"What does that mean?" asked the delivery boy, out loud.

This time, no helpful line of writing appeared. He shrugged. _Oh well. Worth a try._

He made his way to the shallow dock where he'd moored his boat. Carefully, he untied it and got back on, rowing out towards the small village where he'd planned to spend the night -

_Bump._

The cool splash of water hit his back before it covered his face. He felt something strike the back of his neck.

He sat up on the shore, blinking water out of his eyes, and stared at the huge, sharp rock that jutted out of nowhere in the middle of the fast-flowing current.

"Whew, near thing," he muttered. "That could've got me - "

HELLO.

"Oh," said the delivery boy.

He looked up into a serious, chiselled face and teal green eyes, the colour of the river, and swallowed. "I guess it did."

YES. YOU HIT YOUR BOAT AND YOUR HEAD PRETTY HARD.

"Ah. Okay. I - I got something for you, Sir. I think."

DON'T CALL ME SIR. IT'S DAMNED WEIRD. SOUSUKE IS FINE.

"Er. Okay. Here - oh _shit_ , it's floating downstream - "

ALLOW ME.

Sousuke stepped into the river. His jeans remained dry.

He bent down and picked up the long, thin package. The brown paper had dissolved off it, leaving only what lay inside, resting in Sousuke's muscled grip -

A scythe that shone in the sunlight, and even more in the shadows.

THANK YOU. YOU NEED ME TO SIGN FOR THIS OR SOMETHING?

"Well," said the delivery boy, "I _did_ have this slip of paper, but I reckon it doesn't matter much now, seeing as I'm dead."

I GUESS YOU HAVE A POINT. WELL, THANKS. LET'S GO.

"Oh, wait, before we go to - to, uh, wherever you're taking me - "

DON'T WORRY, I GO TO THIS PLACE A LOT. I WON'T GET LOST. I PROMISE.

"I had a message for you as well. What was it? Oh, yeah… same as I told the girl with the red hair…"

The delivery boy screwed up his face in thought and walked on next to Sousuke, across the length of the Amazon.

"Your old friend's looking for you," he said. "Her brother."

OH? HIM? REALLY.

"Yeah."

HUH, said Sousuke. He rubbed the back of his neck, clutched his scythe tighter and thought of Rin. The pendant at his neck grew warmer against his chest.

_IT'S BEEN A WHILE._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are too many references to various things in this chapter for me to list them all down, but I'll just shoutout to a tiny one: in the preview for Free! Episode 7, Rin reveals that Haru once said _tadaima_ when he stepped into the SC in elementary school ;)
> 
> The Four's symbols are taken directly out of Good Omens/Biblical canon, except for Sousuke's scythe, which I just think is a funny mental image.
> 
> Next time on Outrageous AU channel: Haru's obsession with water continues to grow. Rin and Makoto panic. A lot.


	7. reunions (long overdue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Rin meets with some familiar faces, Makoto has a visitation, and Haruka paints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. LOOK WHAT'S BACK. MERRY (BELATED) CHRISTMAS. May the Apocalypse permit us the luxury of a Happy New Year :D

As a general rule, demons didn't really go in for _friends_.

Colleagues, certainly. Everyone had a job to do, and sometimes you had to get other denizens of Hell to help you do yours, and it was all very professional and above board. They ran a tight ship down here, they did.

It was inconvenient, ultimately, to expend all that effort making a _friend_ and then find the next day that they had been liquefied into a foul-smelling puddle of pitch. That sort of thing had an unfortunate habit of happening around these parts.

Then again, as a general rule, demons didn't really go in for _rules_ , either.

Rin was a disciplined demon, as demons went.

Rin was, right this very minute, decidedly _not_ speeding down Kototoi Dori on his way to the sprawling Yanaka Cemetery, to meet an individual who was decidedly _not_ a friend, oh no, let alone his _oldest_ friend in the history of creation, though there was something morbidly appropriate about appending the term _oldest_ to this personage in any way.

There was also something morbidly appropriate about the exact choice of meeting place.

Rin spun round a corner to a screeching halt, frowned at the parking meter till it shrivelled away in abject terror, and slapped on his sunglasses as he made his way into the cemetery. His eyebags were in a terrible state.

It was a Monday morning. Rin, ordinarily, would not have noticed, except that he had been (in his disciplined way) marking off the days of the month that Seijuurou had so generously given him, on the cute cat calendar Makoto had hung in his apartment. He didn't have any other calendars. July's cat was an outrageously fluffy orange-grey kitten sitting in a bowl.

In the glaring heat of summer, the verdant green of the _sakura_ overhead was a welcome shelter. Trees lined both sides of the central street, in between silent tombstones; the soil was dusty in this stifling air, and Rin, when he walked, left invisible footsteps that burnt the tarmac. Wisps of smoke curled in his wake, and disappeared.

He stopped at an unremarkable fenced-off plot of land halfway down the street, raised his sunglasses and arched one sceptical eyebrow at the whole thing and nothing in particular.

"Hey," he said. "I'm here."

I KNOW.

"Where _are_ you?"

EVERYWHERE.

Rin leaned back against the black wire fence and smirked at a passing sunbeam.

"Come on. Don't pull that joke on me."

IT'S NOT A JOKE. BUT FOR YOU…

A fleeting shadow fell over the kerb. The sense of _nothingness_ that filled the empty plot behind him seemed to creep up, slowly, like the ash-grey of an overcast sky. There was a heavy, shuffling sound in the dirt that could have been sneakered feet, or, perhaps, just a sudden gust of wind.

Rin turned around.

"Long time no see," he said, and stretched out a fist.

Sousuke smiled as he returned the gesture.

In the tree above them, an unsuspecting sparrow, settling down to a healthy, wholesome breakfast of freshly plucked seeds and nuts, was blown off its branch by the cosmic reverberations of their fistbump.

"Nice scythe," Rin added.

THANKS. IT'S NEW. GOOD WEIGHT. IT PUTS AN AWFUL STRAIN ON MY SHOULDER, THOUGH.

Sousuke's gaze flicked downward towards said shoulder as he rolled it forward and backward experimentally, shifting his weight.

He had been thoughtful enough to go _incognito_ today, Rin noted, or at least try. He had left his wardrobe of black at home. In its place, he had on a denim-blue collared shirt and khaki slacks. He also still wore the pendant that Rin had given him before Sauntering Vaguely Downward. The whole look was awfully and incongruously _ojiisan_ , especially with that youthful, chiselled face. It hadn't changed in a millennium.

Sousuke had always been the slowest when it came to change. For good reason, Rin supposed. It wasn't like his job had changed very much over the years.

Even dressed like an _ojiisan_ , he still _loomed_. Occupational hazard.

"You got my message?" Rin asked.

Sousuke nodded. I GOT YOUR MESSAGE. YOU MUST BE IN SOME KIND OF REALLY DEEP SHIT TO CALL FOR ME.

Rin aimed an indignant kick at Sousuke's shin, more out of habit than anything else. His foot smacked right through the fence in between them and left a sizzling hole in its wake, crisping helplessly round the edges.

OW. Sousuke looked down. YOU RUINED THE FENCE.

"The fence ruined my expensive Italian leather shoes," Rin muttered.

SO? WHAT'S UP?

"Um," said Rin. "This is a long story, but. You know, the Boss's kid? The one who's supposed to… you _know_."

He waved vaguely.

IS THAT MEANT TO LOOK LIKE POPPING CORN? AN ORGY?

"It's meant to look like the end of the world, whatever the fuck _that_ looks like."

YOU CAN'T PLAY CHARADES, RIN. WELL, WHAT ABOUT HIM?

"I lost him," Rin said.

YOU WHAT?

Rin sighed. "You heard me. Don't pretend like you didn't. Your ears aren't even for hearing. They're for _show_."

Sousuke shrugged. IT'S GOOD NOT TO ALARM HUMANS WHEN I APPEAR TO THEM.

"I didn't know you cared so much. You're just a softy inside, aren't you."

HA HA. WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU LOST HIM.

Rin crossed his arms, scowling. "There was a mix up at the hospital when he was delivered. I've lost track of where he is. Can you, I don't know, find him? Does he _call_ to you guys like some kind of internal GPS?"

Sousuke glowered at him.

Rin, despite being, for all intents and purposes, _immortal_ , or at least not in any particular danger from Sousuke's line of work, found himself cringing a little nonetheless.

YOU LOST THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS.

"Oi. Don't remind me, okay?" Rin grumbled. "I've already had an earful from Seijuurou."

Sousuke rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. The knuckles of his other hand tightened round his scythe.

I DON'T KNOW ABOUT THIS INTERNAL GPS SHIT. NOT SURE IT WORKS THAT WAY.

"Look, Sousuke, I know you're allergic to GPS - "

I'M NOT ALLERGIC. I JUST DON'T NEED IT. I'M EVERYWHERE.

Rin waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Yeah, yeah. Can you help me? If not, I'm fucked."

YOU'RE ALREADY FUCKED.

"I'm even _more_ fucked."

Sousuke grinned at him. It was a sight no mortal being alive had ever witnessed, or should.

He turned away, and studied the stones that lay buried in the earth behind him.

I REALLY LIKE THIS PLACE.

"It was very romantic," Rin remarked. "Two lovers, an affair, a suicide pact, an ancient pagoda…"

THAT LAST PART WAS YOUR IDEA.

Rin's eyebrows shot up. "Was it? It's been a while. I remember the fire, though. It was _glorious_."

YOU ALWAYS DID LIKE FIRE. Sousuke smiled. TODAY IS THE ANNIVERSARY.

"Huh," said Rin. "You're right."

WE'VE HAD SOME GOOD TIMES.

Rin shot him a wry grin. "Well, we won't have any more times, good _or_ bad, if I don't find this kid."

I GUESS SO.

 

* * *

 

_"Efforts to clean the oil spill in the Sea of Japan are ongoing. A spokesperson from the Ministry of the Environment has confirmed that they are monitoring both air and water quality in the coast off Tottori Prefecture._

_In other news, this summer is set to be one of the hottest on record, with temperatures in Tokyo hitting a high of 32°C yesterday._

_Coming up next: Delicious Japan! Find out more about Iwate's sweet, fleshy sea urchins and learn recipes from master chefs!"_

 

* * *

 

"Nanase-kun? I'm sorry to disturb your lunch…"

Nanase Haruka, his mouth full of squid, looked up into a pair of eager brown eyes and an unfamiliar female face.

"Ooh," Nagisa sang, "a girl's looking for you, Haru-chan!"

Rei stared bashfully, eyes wide behind his glasses.

And Aki put down her chopsticks, gave the rest a fleeting, reproachful glare, and smiled at their visitor in her most reassuring manner.

"Satomi-san, right?" she asked. "From class 5-B."

The girl smiled back, nodding. She turned to Haruka, a small, self-conscious blush pinking her cheeks.

"You're not in any clubs, Nanase-kun, so I wanted to ask you… would you consider joining the Art Club?"

Haruka frowned slightly as he considered the request.

It sounded troublesome. There was a reason he had chosen not to join any clubs. It was simply too much of a hassle, for one thing, and for another, it took time away from swimming, Makkou, and the Them.

He swallowed his squid and said, "No."

The girl's face fell.

"Actually, we really need help. One of our members transferred schools, and we don't meet the minimum number for a club, and we'll be forced to close…"

"Oh _no_ ," Nagisa breathed dramatically.

Haruka shot him an annoyed glance before turning back to the important matter of his lunch. The art club closing had nothing to do with him. Why was it _his_ problem? Why was Nagisa looking at him like _that_?

"That's so sad! Haru-chan, you have to help them!"

Haruka shook his head. "I don't want to - "

_Too late._

Nagisa's head had found a spot on his shoulder that it was all too well-acquainted with, homing in with uncanny accuracy on that one point below his collarbone, which just about fit one Nagisa-sized nuzzling forehead.

"Your artwork _is_ really very beautiful," Rei pointed out tentatively, pushing up his glasses.

Haruka looked away.

He looked out longingly at the view of the schoolyard's _sakura_ trees, the watercolour-perfect weather, streaking blue and white across the sky. The wind was gentle, balmy through the window. He could feel the sun's embrace on his skin, and if he listened hard enough, the inviting siren song of waves crashing on shore. It was a fine day for swimming.

It was always a fine day for swimming in Iwatobi.

"Why don't we all join?" Aki suggested brightly.

Haruka's head snapped back.

" _Yes!_ " Nagisa cried, leaping to his feet as he reached for Aki's hands and clasped them tightly. "Zaki-chan is right! Let's join _together_! It'll be fun if we do it together, won't it, Haru-chan?"

"Join on your own," Haruka murmured round his lunch. "You don't need me."

Rei cleared his throat. "Haruka-kun, it won't be the same without you…"

There was a hush, then, a hush that reverberated beyond the walls of Classroom 5-A in Iwatobi Elementary School, hugged the red brick of the flowerbeds near the trees and settled, whispering, like a ripple through the warming summer air. The afternoon seemed to teeter in a delicate balance. For from the mouth of Ryugazaki Rei, there had fallen an absolute Truth, and there had not been many moments in history where an absolute Truth had been spoken, let alone by a precocious human boy with thick spectacles who was not yet eleven years old.

The group standing around Haruka's table did not hear the way the breeze fell silent. But they knew, in the sure, confident way of children who had not yet learned to second-guess themselves, that Rei was right. It would not be the same without Haruka.

"You can all come and try it out after school tomorrow!" Satomi said with a hopeful smile.

And Nanase Haruka, the fate of the world fragile in his hands, let out a quiet sigh and stabbed at a fishcake with his fork.

 

* * *

 

_"We move on now to a report on the Pachinko habits of working adults, according to a recent survey conducted by…"_

Makoto blinked.

He rubbed his eyes, and stared. The ceiling, a vision in pristine off-white, stared back at him. It was glowing.

Makoto's things did not usually glow. This was because Makoto did not usually space out long enough for his excess divine energy to start leaking _that_ much. But Makoto did not, _usually_ , make a habit of watching NHK for an entire week either.

He had memorised the schedule. He had learned a lot about cultural affairs, the weather and cooking seafood. He had tried to apply a sea urchin recipe, and failed in spectacular fashion. He had, approximately three days ago, begun to regret his promise to Rin to keep an eye on the news, and his own stubbornness.

"Unnghhhh," said Makoto out loud.

With an effort, he sat up and stretched his arms. His shoulders creaked. His back ached. The tea on the table had gone cold. Makoto picked it up and looked down mournfully into the dregs of what had been a perfectly good cup of Darjeeling. It was possible that an independent colony of hitherto undiscovered life forms had taken up residence in it. Certainly they looked very green, and a little spiky round the edges.

Feeling a tinge of regret, Makoto vanished the entire cup with a flick of his fingers, setting scientific advancement back another two hundred years at least.

**_You were out for a while._ **

Makoto jumped.

He turned to the TV very slowly.

"Hi, Metatron," he said. "How are you?"

Through the NHK news anchor's lips, the Voice of God paused fuzzily, confused.

_Oh dear. Human habit._

Makoto clasped his hands in his lap and tried to plaster a pleasant smile across his face. He had forgotten that his people really weren't all that big on small talk.

**_I am. As I am. We hear that the Four will ride soon._ **

Yeah, they _really_ weren't into small talk.

 _Surely_ \- thought Makoto, feeling somewhat _rebuffed_ \- it was common courtesy to engage one's conversational partner in a little thoughtful enquiry about the state of their lives, and how their rare book business was doing, and whether they had heard any good music lately, before dropping a bombshell like that, or _something_ that was supposed to _be_ a bombshell, anyway. Never mind that he'd already heard the same thing from Seijuurou, Duke of Hell, in Rin's car. Heaven really didn't need to know that…

Makoto sat up straight, and looked Metatron straight in the HD golden-brown eyes.

"Soon?" he repeated.

**_Yes. This summer._ **

"Ah," said Makoto. "That _is_ soon."

**_We understand you have been busy thwarting the Antichrist._ **

Without batting an eyelid, Makoto's smile widened.

"Yes. The Antichrist. He's a… a regular handful. I have been busy. Thwarting is very tiring work."

**_The Enemy must not be allowed to advance. The Kingdom of God stands ready to effect the Ineffable Plan. The Earth must be ready, too. It is up to you._ **

Metatron had always been _so_ very dramatic.

Makoto nodded confidently. "It's all under control."

The sound crackled, and the TV display blurred for a second, in a way that HDTVs _really_ had no business doing. When it re-focused, the NHK presenter's mellow, familiar voice resumed its no doubt fascinating report on Pachinko.

_"…it is apparently common to witness players, in fits of rage, pouring coffee down the chute where balls are inserted…"_

Makoto collapsed onto his couch and let out a long, unsteady breath.

His living room table had started to pulse with a nervous glow.

His limbs felt like wet noodles. _He_ felt like a wet noodle. For the first time in his existence that he could remember, he dearly longed for some of Rin's most excruciatingly foul coffee, the kind that came straight from the bowels of _he really didn't want to know where thank you very much_.

He stood up and went to the kitchen.

As he took the lid off a can of sinfully smoky Lapsang Souchong, inhaling the scent, a new voice from the TV caught his attention. It was not the usual presenter for this time of day. It was the prime time news anchor, the lady who wore her hair in a tight bun and seemed to own a blazer in every imaginable shade of brown.

Makoto looked up.

He listened.

_"We interrupt this program for a special bulletin…"_

 

* * *

 

Haruka was mildly surprised to find that he did not entirely object to art club.

One reason for this was because, as the desperate Satomi had relayed to the Them, the club was facing a distinct shortage of members, and hence, there were very few people there to bother Haruka.

This was to his liking.

He discovered, also, that the few people who _were_ there were mostly quiet and mild-mannered and did not make a lot of noise, and that there was an unspoken compact among artists: one did not disturb an artist at work.

(Well, unless that _one_ was Hazuki Nagisa, who somehow managed to befriend every other art club member on a first-name basis in the space of that afternoon and find out what their favourite colours, favourite things to draw, and preferred types of candy were.)

Coincidentally, the skies over Iwatobi were grey that day.

It was the first day this summer that it had threatened to rain.

It was a freak occurrence, said the fishermen, scratching their heads and shrugging it off. It was most unseasonal for the weather to take a turn for the stormy at this time of year. But they had made such a good profit selling their catch to neighbouring towns lately that they could afford to rest, for now. The ocean really wasn't in any state for anyone to go out in it today.

So it was that on this one afternoon indoors, Haruka enjoyed an unexpectedly peaceful few hours painting his canvas in shades of deep-sea blue and grey.

"What are _those_ , Haru-chan?"

Haruka turned to see Nagisa peeking over his shoulder, a dab of orange paint on the tip of his nose.

He set down his brush, dipped a finger into clean water and rubbed it off for him. Nagisa sneezed and grinned.

" _Makkou kujira_ ," said Haruka.

"Ah! The sperm whale that Makkou is named after!"

Haruka nodded. He turned back to his painting.

They were coming. He had called them, and he felt it now in the depths of his heart.

_They were coming…_

 

* * *

 

_"In the course of routine monitoring of the oil spill in the Sea of Japan, the Ministry of the Environment has reported an unusual and unprecedented explosion in the population of sperm whales._

_Scientists have no explanation for the phenomenon._

_A huge pod, numbering - at early estimates - in the hundreds, has been spotted moving swiftly towards…"_

 

* * *

 

"Onii- _chan_!"

Rin coughed, sputtered, and nearly choked on his mouthful of steak.

"Hi," he said. "Could you not do that?"

The red-haired girl sat back, crossed her arms and frowned. "Do what?"

"That thing where you just suddenly appear in the empty seat across from me."

"Oh. Sorry. Where are we?"

"In my favourite steak house. Eating some very expensive Kobe beef. Wine? They do really good pairings here."

Rin picked up the glass of Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon next to him and offered it to his sister. She took a delicate sip, wrinkling her nose and glaring over the rim at Rin, with baleful red eyes that shone in a decidedly otherworldly manner.

She looked well, Rin thought. There was probably a good reason why she was dressed in a tracksuit. The last he had checked, tracksuits were not suitable diplomatic attire. Neither were they acceptable articles of clothing to be worn in a fancy steak house.

Of course, it wasn't like anyone was going to chase them out, but it was really the _thought_ that counted. Rin always made sure to put on his best shirt and jacket when he came here.

"You're the worst, Onii-chan! You looked up Sousuke-kun and then just _ran_ off!"

"What? _Hey_ \- I didn't know you were planning to join us - "

Kou made a face. "I was delayed. Work. But I heard from him about - "

" _Ssshhh_ ," Rin hissed. "Don't say it out loud!"

"Your little problem," Kou finished, setting down the glass with a _clink_. Her fingers tapped a knowing, restless tattoo against the fine tablecloth.

Rin scowled. "So? Has he got anything for me? Have _you_? Is _he_ paging you yet?"

"Pagers are very two decades ago, Onii-chan. Haven't you got a mobile phone?"

"Of course I do," Rin said irritably. "It's a figure of speech, okay?"

Kou leaned forward on her elbows. Her smile faded.

In the chandelier's uneven light, her hair seemed _redder_ than before; and it was not the auburn red of autumn leaves nor, even, the dark scarlet taint of blood, this was _true_ red, the very essence of _red_ that pulsed forth from the heart of all Creation.

"We feel it. The pull," she said.

Rin lay down his fork.

"Great." He sighed. "So where on this _planet_ is he?"

Kou reached out.

She touched her fingertips to Rin's forehead, for a brief moment.

Something in Rin's mind _burned_ , seared with a scorching heat that imprinted itself on the back of his consciousness, sure and irreversible.

"There," she said, dropping her hand.

"I don't know where the fuck this place is," said Rin.

Kou smacked him on the temple. "Go find out. Do I look like Google Maps?"

Rin snorted with laughter and flicked her nose. She yelped in indignation.

"Thanks, little sister," he said. "I owe you one."

Kou sighed, a little wistfully.

"Just when I'd found something I really like to do… the world's got to end. It's too bad."

And Rin, savouring another mouthful of absolutely unreal melt-in-your-mouth beef, thought, _yeah._

_It really is._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Rin and Sousuke are meeting at the ruins of the [Yanaka Five-Storied Pagoda](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yanaka_Five-Storied_Pagoda_Double-Suicide_Arson_Case), which burned down in a suicide-arson case on July 6, 1957.
> 
> 2) That bit about Pachinko players pouring coffee down the machine in rage is, [apparently, 100% true](http://www.japantoday.com/category/kuchikomi/view/pachinko-is-recreation-for-retards-magazine-claims).
> 
> Next time: To Iwatobi we go!


End file.
